Assassin's Creed III: The Terror
by Thasiloron
Summary: Paris. The people are clamoring for freedom, as the Templars try to reconsolidate their hold on the ancient Kingdom of France. During this time of turmoil, Lafayette brings Connor to the heart of France.
1. Prologue

**Prologue**

**_"It was the best of times, it was the worst of times... In short, the period was so like the present period, that some of its noisiest authorities insisted on its being received, for good or for evil, in the superlative degree of comparison only."_**

**_~Charles Dickens, A Tale of Two Cities_**

_College Louis-le Grand, Paris, France_

_July 1775_

It was decided that the new King and his Queen would visit the College Louis-le-Grand. Visits such as these were common after coronations; but they would not linger, for they had more entertaining things to do. They would be met, with their retinue, at the main gate, they would descend from their carriage, and then the school's brightest pupil would read them a thankful speech. When the day finally arrived, the weather was not agreeable.

An hour and a half before the guests were expected, the students and staff assembled at the gate. Officials trotted in on horseback, pushing them back and rearranging them, rather forcefully. Scarce drops of rain became a steady drizzle. Then came the attendants, bodyguards, and persons-in-waiting; when they were done positioning themselves, everyone was cold and wet. Few could recall the last coronation, so they had had little idea that it would take so long. The students huddled in miserable groups, and shifted on their legs, waiting. If they stepped out of line, the officials jumped forward and shoved him back, fiddling with rapiers and bayonets.

Finally, the royal carriage drew up into the lot. People now stood on their toes and craned their necks above the waves of students, and the younger ones began to jump up and down for a sight of their new monarchs. The principal approached and bowed. He began to say a few words he had prepared, in the direction of the royal conveyance.

The Queen bobbed out her heavily powdered head and bobbed it in again. The King waved dismissively, and muttered something to a man in livery, who conveyed it, sneering, down a line of officials. All was made clear; they would not descend. The address would be read to Their Majesties as they sat snug in the coach.

The principal's head was whirling. He should have had carpets, or canopies, perhaps some temporary pavilion erected, maybe bedecked with green boughs, and with the royal arms on display, or Their Majesties' entwined monograms forged from flowers. His expression grew wild, repentant, remote. Luckily, his attendant remembered to give the nod to the scholarship boy.

The boy began, his voice projecting better after the first few nervous phrases. The attendant relaxed; he had written it, coached the boy. It sounded well – his harsh provincial accent was masked well by the Latin.

The Queen shivered. She then stifled a yawn. The King turned, attentive. The coachman gathered the reigns, and the whole ponderous entourage stirred and creaked forward. They were leaving – the welcome unacknowledged, the address not half-read.

The scholarship boy did not seem to notice nor care what was happening. Maximilien de Robespierre just went on orating, his face set and pale, looking straight ahead into the distance.

* * *

_Davenport__ Homestead, Massachusetts, United States of America_

_August 31, 1784_

The sun was setting in the west when a coach appeared on the road from the south. It was headed for the Davenport Homestead, where Connor Kenway waited expectantly, his hands folded behind his back. The birds had begun to quiet, giving way to an orchestra of crickets and frogs as dusk approached.

The veil of autumn had fallen across the land, painting the hills and vales with auburns, ambers, and mahoganies. The leaves had begun to fall throughout the Homestead. The carriage raced past them all, on towards the high hill of the Davenports.

When the coach pulled up to the steps leading up to the front porch, the driver jumped off his seat and pulled the door open relevantly, as if handling a sacred relic. Within were Lafayette and Stephane Chapheau.

The Marquis wore a blue military coat with brass buttons, and a pure white cravat. Cream gloves adorned his hands, and he wore his favorite wig.

He exited the coach with a natural grace, as if he had been born in one. He stepped primly onto the ground and embraced the Assassin firmly, saying, "Connor, _mon ami_, it has been too long! Please, tell this cretin of yours to calm down!"

Stephane Chapheau exited the coach rather more jarringly, still unused to the rolling of the wheels. "This madman will get me killed, Kenway! I cannot count how many times this thing has bumped on the way here!"

The chef wore his usual navy blue doublet over a cream shirt. A shining meat cleaver hung from his leather belt, as did a few pistols. His hair was covered by a washcloth. He had also, apparently, decided to forgo his apron.

Connor simply chuckled. "You must forgive me, Stephane. We have yet to properly pave the road up here." He walked down the steps and knelt down to Stephane, offering him his hand. Chapheau grasped it and Connor pulled him up, with a grunt. "Please, come in."

Lafayette nodded. "This is a beautiful building, Connor. Did you build it yourself?"

The Assassin halted before the threshold, then shook his head. "No. It was a gift… From a friend." He continued inside, followed by the two Frenchmen.

"What, and the curtains too? My, he must have been very well off…" Stephane shrugged out of his coat and hung it on a rack near the entrance.

"Achilles had some assistance with the maintenance of this place, at the onset. Come, have a seat." They had entered the living room. Connor crossed over to the hearth and prodded the dying embers several times, before plodding more firewood into the ashes.

Lafayette smiled as he sat down in a velvet seat by the fire. "This is a very beautiful estate, Connor. Why, it rivals even Mount Vernon!"

Connor's smile shrunk at that. "You were there last month to visit the General, correct?"

"_Oui,_ that was a warm visit. _Georges_ sends his regards."

Stephane noticed Connor's tense stance, and knew where the Assassin would like to shove Washington's regards. "How is his estate? I have never been there."

"Ah, it's beautifully situated, high above the Potomac. Of course, it is a, ah, plantation estate…" Lafayette's face began to match Connor's in his distaste for the Commander-in-Chief.

"Well, I'm glad to say I saw not a single shackle on the way up here, Kenway!" Stephane had also dropped into an armchair. "We've had far too much of that sort of thing, really."

"… I am sure he has his reasons for owning slaves in Virginia. But I digress. What brings you both up north, my friends?" Connor was leaning on the mantle above the hearth, the fire casting deep shadows on his robes.

"Ah, as to that… I shall not be staying in America long, Connor, so I figured I might as well make good on my promise. I would like you to accompany us back to France."

Connor blinked, then turned to face the Marquis. In Valley Forge, the general had spoken of his desire to transform the heart of France, in the manner of the colonies. "_Us?"_

"_Oui_, I am going as well." Stephane cleared his throat, and began shifting rather suspiciously. "I am _Québécois,_ yes, but I do have some family in the homeland. I figure now's a good a time as any to visit."

Connor could understand that. Even during his apprentice days, he had visited his village at Kanatahséton many times. Still… "I can't just leave. These people, they need me-"

Lafayette stood over and crossed over to Connor. Clasping his shoulder, he told him, "You have done wonderfully here, my friend. But I think they will be able to survive a few years without you. Have some faith in your community, Connor."

The Assassin was hesitant. "You expect me to drop everything and just go gallivanting halfway across th-"

"We have come here in advance, Connor." Lafayette strode back behind his armchair and clasped the back of it with both hands. "We will be staying in America for a year or two. Afterwards, you are free to join us or no."

"What can you tell me about France?"

Lafayette sighed and looked downwards, his lips pursing. "The King's intervention here in America has hit the national budget rather hard. The Third Estate – the common-folk – they have no say in their governance, and are on a daily hunt for food. Paris is starving, and the Bourbons are well fed in Versailles, without a care in the world."

"It is said that the people yearn for accountability from the Royal family. It is said that the Church is slowly strangling the lifeblood of the poor." Stephane crossed his arms defensively. "So long as I am able, I would gladly help my blood in France. But they will need more than just us, Connor. We need you, too."

"And how would you describe the Bourbons? Are they of ill-intent?" Connor's quick glance at Stephane belied his actual question: _Are they Templars?_

Lafayette immediately answered, "No, goodness no, but they are… well, out of touch, to say the least…"

"They're_ touched_, to say the most…." Grumbled Stephane by the fire.

"The King, God save him, reigned too early – he was nineteen, and had inherited much debt from his grandfather. He's a hesitant man; he hopes that by refusing to make decisions, he can avoid making mistakes. The Queen, now… she is a foreigner, and cares little for her new people. She's a Hapsburg, from Austria, and has little qualms about spending French money-"

"Which no longer exists, technically," Chapheau cut in.

"Yes, well… Add in her ostentatious gambling and rather outlandish fashions, and you have a quagmire of debt. She's even been branded – rather rudely, perhaps - with the title of 'Madame Deficit,'" Lafayette concluded.

"Our first task is to see France's debts paid, and obligations fulfilled." Stephane leaned forward, grasping the arms of his chair tightly. "The nature of government will have an easier transition during the resulting surplus."

Connor asked, "And why do you need me for this?"

"You have a certain talent for these things, _mon ami!_ You are a gifted leader, a remarkable captain and an inspiration to your men. At least come for a short visit. Paris is the most beautiful city in the world! Versailles, Notre Dame, the Bastille - I would be honored to show you the heart of France."

"… Alright, I'll go. Just allow me to settle my affairs beforehand. You are welcome to stay the night, if you wish."

"I thank you for your hospitality, Connor, but we've already rented rooms in that little inn close to the Frontier. 'The Mile's End', I think it's called?"

"Yes. Please give Oliver and Corrine my regards. And… be careful on the ride back."

Stephane was already slumping in his armchair, groaning.

* * *

_Quai D'orsay, Paris, France_

_October 1784_

Lafayette's barge sliced through the murky waters of the River Seine, pushing out waves from its prow. With a clashing bell, it pulled up to the roadside dock of Paris. Gulls cried out and danced above the surface, seeking their morning meal, and fishwives stood beside pavilions containing their wares, advertising their low prices at the gulls' expense.

Connor walked down to the gangplank and walked onto the boardwalk. Stephane, joined him without complaint, having a surprisingly easier time on the ship then a coach. "Waves, you can expect," he had said. "It's those damned roads of yours, Connor! You can never anticipate the rocks on those things!"

From the tops of buildings, a blue and red bicolor flag rippled in the wind, just beneath the white on gold fleur-de-lis of the Bourbon monarchy.

"The blue is for Saint Martin, and the red, Saint Denis." Lafayette practically bounced onto the boardwalk, beaming. "Those are the colors of Paris, my friend, just beneath those of our lawful King."

Connor decided not to ask who those saints were just yet. He had noted an island in the center of the Seine, just upriver; several buildings towered over the natural foliage of the island. He pointed. "What place is that, Lafayette?"

"Ah… The _Île de la Cité_. You are gazing upon an old palace, Connor. On its eastern end, however, dwells Our Lady of Paris, _Notre Dame_! She is an inspiring sight, my friend. It towers above all the city, and its great bells call the faithful to prayer daily."

"I would like to see it for myself… Stephane, would you like to join me?"

"_Oui_, it should be an inspiring sight. Do you know how to get there, Marquis?"

Lafayette nodded. "Certainly. You can reach it by crossing the _Pont Neuf_ on its western banks. When you are done, come to my lodgings nearby. _Au revoir, mes amis_!"

As the dockworkers continued to unload Lafayette's luggage, Connor and Stephane walked up to the Quai D'orsay. A small palace stood to their right. "The Palais Bourbon, I think," Stephane said. "I do not think it reflects the city's nature."

"Likely not, no," Connor said brusquely. "Come, the isle is just ahead." They walked quickly down the street, slinking past both fishwives (one of whom was brandished a rather bloody cleaver) and beggars (of which there were many, and without cleavers.) The passed beneath the Old Wall of the city, beneath a rounded arch filled with the stink of sewage and copulation.

"This is a very large city, Stephane…" He noticed some of the closer beggars giving him queer looks askance. "Why are they acting like that?"

"No offense, Connor, but, ah, there aren't… many of your tribe left, correct? They've just never seen an Indian before, that's all."

The Seine was a mighty river, all things considered. The Hudson River of New York easily dwarfed its span… and yet, the Seine somehow had a power over the city. It had been its center for two millennia, and had been the backbone of the Kingdom of France for half that time. It appeared that while there were many fish to sell by its banks, they were not of particularly good quality, at least caught locally. The population had long ago caught the larger fish in the Seine, and all that was left were some rather sorry guppies. That was not to say the fishwives had no noteworthy catches – such things often came from downriver, in the English Channel.

They were now at the _Pont Neuf_. The New Bridge of Paris was actually the oldest (without any houses lining it, that is.) The bridge was composed of two separate spans that crossed the Seine. In the middle it was connected to the _Île de la Cité_. Along the bridge itself, the Assassins encountered a small congregation of people drawn by various stands and street performers. Women in garish dress prowled the railing seeking customers, and carriages blasted their way through what few pedestrians loitered on the road. By the entrance to the_ Île _stood a lonely gallows, their ropes swinging in the wind.

Towering above the Pont Neuf was yet another palace with a vast, three-sided _cour d'honneur_. A tall, black gate blocked off the palace from the rest of the city, its railings enameled with bronze and gold, shimmering in the daylight. "How many of those things does the King need?"

"Ah, I think that is the _Palais de Justice_, Connor… It's where _Parlement_ holds its meetings."

Lafayette had mentioned the _Parlement de Paris_ only briefly on the voyage to France. "Their only concern is to preserve our noble privileges. They won't even let us increase our own taxes! Not only several yards away the city starves, and yet they frequently voice their concerns about the effect higher taxation will have on the Second Estate! At this rate, a revolution is a forgone conclusion."

Crossing the island proved a little more tricky. Within the _Palais de Justice_, a tall palace flanked by thick, spherical towers with high conical roofs. The building itself was guarded by an inordinate amount of the City Watch. They gave the Assassins a wary eye, then dismissed them when they continued down the street. At Connor's prodding, Stephane reluctantly gave him the name of the building. "_La Conciergerie_. It was abandoned in favor of the _Louvre_ on the Right Bank, and now is more of a prison than a palace. The _oubliettes_ are its most prominent features." From what precious little Connor knew of the French language, the term 'forgotten places' did not evoke a benevolent feeling.

A coach passed through the sea of beggary and whoredom, a golden carriage accompanied by silver bayonets and affixed with the coat of arms of some important House or another. Many of the commoners gave the carriage a rueful glare as it trundled through the streets. Some even hissed and made hateful (and rather crude) hand gestures at the departing vehicle.

Finally, they had reached _Notre Dame de Paris_. It was a Gothic Cathedral looming above the city of Paris, its pointed arches reaching for the heavens, supported by flying buttresses. Two grand bell-towers supported the arches, connected by the church itself.

Engraved into the westwork of the cathedral were thousands upon thousands of stone figures, saints, kings, emperors, and warriors, all giving homage to the three figures carved before its stained glass window in the center of the westwork – the Holy Trinity.

To Connor, it appeared rather… flat from the front. It had a stained glass window, yes, but such things were only noteworthy from the interior. There was no grand opening, either, just six small wooden doors, paired in groups of two each.

The stone was carved more elaborately – one portal depicted the Assumption of the Virgin Mary, one in the center the Last Judgment in Heaven, one more St-Anne, the Mother of the Virgin. Guards in white jackets and cockades stood beside the portals, bayonets gleaming in he rising sun.

Connor glanced at them but briefly, then walked around to the southern façade. The church was smaller here, and he immediately clambered up on of the buttresses. Stephane followed him to the roof of the church, then to the west again, to the southern bell-tower. It seemed to tower over the church itself, putting the rest to shame. Nonetheless, Connor began to climb.

On the way up, the barkeep said, "The cathedral's treasury is said to hold the greatest relics in all of Christendom. A fragment of the True Cross, a Holy Nail – even the Crown of Thorns, if you can believe it! Think it was bought from a Byzantine Emperor… Or maybe it was Venetians…"

"I am sure they are all great instruments of power for this place." Connor himself had lost a lot of his respect for relics. The one given to him by the Clan Mother _Oiá:ner_, the Crystal Ball of the _Kanien'kehá:ka_ had disintegrated within his very hands. He had a feeling that the ones within _Notre Dame_ were just as impotent.

They pushed themselves into the southern bell-tower, and before them stood a great bourdon bell, larger than any of the others. On its side was inscribed the name _Emmanuel._

Stephane smiled. "Well, I'm sure that makes some pretty music, but why did we-Connor?"

The Assassin was gazing across the city from a plank jutting into the air. He noted even more palaces on the Right Bank of the River Seine – the closest one was the _Louvre_, the one with the grand courtyard, most likely, and along that road the _Tuileries_, with its bountiful gardens and lush canopies, and over there-

_Thump._

_Thump._

_Thump._

A pair of approaching footsteps stomped their way up the stairs behind him, lurching him out of his survey. Signaling to Stephane, he leaped from _Notre Dame_, right into a well placed tree halfway to the ground. The barkeep followed after, crashing into limbs and leaves.

As they dropped to the ground, the bells of _Notre Dame_ began to sound. It was a harmonious, even heavenly sound, that it almost brought Connor to his knees. Stephane, however, merely shrugged and said, "Noon. Lafayette's likely done unloading. Let's see if we can find him, eh?"

* * *

_Hôtel de La Fayette, Paris, France_

_October 1784_

On the _rue de Bourbon _stood the _Hôtel de La Fayette_ on the _Île Saint-Louis,_ just to the east of the _Île de la Cité _and _Notre Dame. _The _hôtel_ itself was crowded by workers from the docks, carrying luggage up from the River Seine, several of them calling out bawdy jokes about the others' mothers. Lafayette's own guardsmen assisted, as did the marquis himself.

"Ah, Connor! Stephane!" Lafayette plopped a heavy crate of books by the door of his Paris residence. "Did you enjoy Our Lady of Paris? No, not like that, Stephane! Honestly, I wonder why I brought you in the first place."

"Notre Dame was… magnificent, Lafayette. You heard the bells?"

"Of course, everyone hears them! Even in the dead of night! Well, I suppose if you're a paid bell-ringer, you had best get to ringing. But never mind! Come, _mes amis_, I've some visitors that I want you to meet!"

Lafayette led them past the threshold of his apartments and into a gilded hallway. Renaissance paintings gazed down at them as they made their way beneath glittering chandeliers and finely crafted floor-moldings. They eventually stopped before a door flanked by two headless Greco-Roman statues, both male, engaged in some ancient sport or labor.

He led them into a parlor filled with clothed tables and emblazoned chairs stuffed with cushioning. As they continued towards the back of the room, a loud voice began to carry over the din of conversation.

"… So I said to him, 'Monsieur, I do not wish to associate with you; you cut women into little pieces!'"

Two men sat at a table in the corner. One was rather plump, with a sharp nose and eyes to match, his long, scraggly brown hair checkered with gray and hidden by a fur cap worn by the frontiersmen back in the colonies. His bright eyes were guarded by a pair of bifocal glasses, a trademark invention of the man before them. Benjamin Franklin received Lafayette and Connor with a knowing smile and a nod.

The man sitting beside Franklin was unknown to Connor. He was a large man, and a large head to match, with a pockmarked face, as if he had had a bad outbreak of acne in his younger years. His nose and lips were thick and heavy, and he bore more than a few moles on his cheeks. However, he carried himself with an air of charisma, as if assured of his positions, whatever they may be.

Lafayette took the Assassin by the shoulder and directed him to the table. "You remember Benjamin Franklin, Connor?"

"Yes, he helped sign the Declaration of Independence."

Franklin scoffed. "Not quite as large a signature as Hancock's, but it sufficed for the King. Now, Connor, this is my colleague-"

"The Comte de Mirabeau, if you please, although I am known as Honoré to my mother." Mirabeau leaned forward in his gilded poofy chair and grabbed hold of Connor's hand, shaking it firmly. Connor immediately noticed that his left ring finger was branded with a sigil. Connor's eyes darted up to meet the Count's, but he only winked.

"I am serving as America's ambassador to His Majesty the King of France and Navarre." Franklin rattled out the title from memory and took off his fur hat in respect to the absentee monarch.

"And as his personal jester, if that hat is any consideration," jibbed Mirabeau with a loud chortle.

"Nonsense! The ladies think it gives me a 'rustic frontier genius'!"

"The genius is that you look so much like a rat, King George could never have found you!"

"I will not stand a second more of this! Connor, help an old man, would you?" Connor diligently bent down beside Franklin, who grasped the Assassin's arm. "Thank you. Now, where - ah!" He leaned for a walking cane that he had laid into the corner earlier.

Lafayette grew worried at his friend's trials. "Are you sure you do not wish to stay the night, _monsieur_? With your gout-"

"Yes, I do have a bad foot, thank you for reminding me, good _marquis_!" Franklin declared loudly, now leaning on his cane. "Insults and insults! Why, a man could expect better courtesy in Boston!"

"I am sorry you have to compare us to that city, monsieur! At least it was not Sodom, I suppose…" Mirabeau mused to himself, still reflecting on his internment with the marquis de Sade.

"Good, direct your jests at yourself, if you will! Connor, let's talk, shall we? Catch up on old times and all that." Franklin limped for the door and out into the street, Connor close behind him.

The Assassin was rather confused. "You are not truly insulted, are you?"

"Ha! Those were some kind words back there! You've never dabbled in politics, have you, Connor?"

"I'm afraid not."

"You should be grateful! Lousy bunch of ingrates, that's all politicians are. I pray you remain ignorant of them from now until the end of time. You are from the Mohawk tribe, correct?"

The Assassin stiffened. "That is a slur given to us by another tribe - it means 'Flesh-Eater'. It may surprise you colonists, but we are not cannibals. We are the _Kanien'kehá:ka_, the People of the Flint."

"Oh, of course not! The Iroquois Confederacy is a great source of inspiration for myself and others in Philadelphia. Its ideals of representative government and personal freedoms will undoubtedly be a part of a new constitution."

The stopped on the road to the _Île de la Cité, _carriages and candle-makers alike going to and fro the isle. They navigated towards the railing, so Franklin could lean on that for relief as well. "I am glad we have been of some assistance in this regard, but-"

"Your tribe went west, did it not?" Franklin sighed and gazed at the setting sun in the west. "Our little spat with Britain tore the Confederacy apart, I fear… Is that what brought you here, Connor?"

"Partially." Connor leaned on the rail, his forearms holding his weight. "I am also here at Lafayette's invitation, as you can tell. He wants to help 'transform France.' How he means for me to help, I can't say."

"Ah, don't underestimate yourself, Connor. Sometimes it takes the audience to finish the play. But, ah… Try not to alienate Mirabeau either. Their interests are aligned, but they're leaders, not followers."

"I will keep that in mind."

"So Connor, you've not wed yet? I'd think you would want to get hitched before your time comes, when you're just an old sack of bones like me!" Franklin chuckled a little at his self deprecation.

A blush was summoned onto Connor's cheeks. "… Well, I have not had much time to consider… I have been engaged in other pursuits… Wedding is not among them, right now."

"Well, you're a young lad, you've got your whole life ahead of you! Fruit is better when ripened, after all. If I may offer some advice in that regard, Connor… an older mistress is vastly preferable to a young one. They hold better conversation, cannot be easily impregnated, and they exercise greater prudence in conducting an affair."

The blush deepened. "I will… keep that in mind. France is… known for that sort of thing, yes?"

Franklin nodded, a twinkle in his eye. "Quite, quite. But you may want to let loose, Connor. You Kenways have always been a rather wound up bunch."

That caught Connor's attention. "You know the Kenways?"

"One Haytham Kenway, and only briefly. He had just arrived in Boston, during the Seven Years War, I think… I helped me gather some pages for my Almanac, if I recall… I still need to complete that blasted thing…"

The Assassin shifted against the rail. "How did… he strike you?"

"Oh, he was a polite chap, to be sure. He was still possessed of virtue – he certainly wasn't from Boston, I can tell you that much! I'm still not too sure why he came to the colonies… Was he a close relative of yours?"

He shook his head. "No… we were never close."

"Well, that is a pity… Family's all you've got in this world, Connor, and the only thing you can be sure of… Besides death and taxes, of course."

When Connor returned to the Hotel de Lafayette, he found the comte de Mirabeau waiting for him in the parlor. "So, come back, have you? How was your little chat with our inventive friend? Was it about those ladies of his again? No, never mind, it's not too important. Come, walk with me."

The assassin blinked as Mirabeau grabbed him by the arm and pulled him into an enclave by the wall. His pockmarked face was even more scarred up close, but Mirabeau certainly held no bashfulness about it. "Tell me, Connor, what do you know of our Order?"

The _comte's_ branded ring finger compelled Connor to reply. "Only what Achilles told me before he… passed on."

"Passed on? What, the gravy? He's dead, boy, no need to evade the point." Mirabeau grasped his other arm. "What are our words?"

"I… we never went over the old-"

"The words of our order are sacrosanct! 'Nothing is true, everything is permitted.' What is the Creed?

"I-"

'"Stay your blade from the flesh of the innocent. Hide in plain sight. Never compromise the Brotherhood.'" Mirabeau released Connor. "Davenport may have trained you martially, but you are ignorant of our morals and code of ethics. Still want to be an Assassin, boy? We'll have to bring you up to speed, then."

* * *

_Québécois:_ (French) A French-speaking native of the Canadian province of Quebec.

_Île de la Cité:_ (French) One of two remaining isles in the Seine river within the city of Paris.

_Kanien'kehá:ka:_ (Kanien'kehá) The People of the Place of the Flint. Called Mohawks by the colonists.

_Mohawk__: _(Narraganset) An exonym given to the Kanien'kehá:ka by the Narraganset, a rival tribe. A bastardization of 'mohowaùuck', "they eat (animate) things".

_Hôtel de La Fayette: _(French) The headquarters of Americans in Paris, and Lafayette's residence.


	2. The Estates-General

**Chapter I: The Estates-General**

**"What is the Third Estate? Everything. What has it been until now in the political order? Nothing. What does it ask? To become something." **

**~ Abbé Sieyès, Jan. 1789**

_Paris, France  
__June 1788_

Benjamin Franklin had returned to America in January of 1785. Before he left, the inventor had taken his cane and rapped it sharply on the lightning rod of the Hôtel de Lafayette, crying, "You're welcome!" As he boarded his ship, he proclaimed loudly to Paris, "_Ça ira, ça ira!"_

In December of that same year, Lafayette had been appointed to the Assembly of Notables by the King. Connor's time, meanwhile, was taken up by the Comte de Mirabeau. "Damn it, man, did you even go through the proper initiation? Did Achilles say the words?"

"I'm afraid… not, no, monsieur."

"Bah! Your colonists wouldn't know tradition if it smacked them in the face. I'll wager there weren't any actual Templars there, either, just some puffed up Hospitallers or the like. So much the better for you, then…"

Connor immediately noticed that Mirabeau had given him few missions since he had arrived in Paris. Indeed, a great many weapons were confiscated from him that very evening at the Hotel de Lafayette. "You are now a Novice, Connor. Prove your adherence to the Creed, and you shall have these back." Thankfully, he had left him his tomahawk – mostly due to curiosity, on Mirabeau's part.

His only consolation was that Stephane had joined him in his apprenticeship. Nationality was given little weight in the Brotherhood, it seemed. They were both given lessons in the history and ethics of the Brotherhood by a scientist named Jean-Paul Marat, who claimed to have known Franklin somewhat - and who, amusingly, thought the whole charade a waste of time. "Mirabeau is all about his philosophy - if it were up to me, you'd be out slaying _aristos, _at Audu's tutelage. Bad enough they've entangled themselves in society, but we're also to take their orders from the Brotherbood. Well, if _Riqueti_ wishes it..."

When they weren't being lectured by the likes of Marat, they were given free reign of the city. Public debates could be heard daily at the Palais-Royal. The inflamed masses gathered around the Café du Foy, one of many cafes in the palace's gardens, and heard lectures from the regular dissidents. Many of them seemed promising, but as yet, no action was taken beyond the courtyard.

* * *

Earlier in the week, the Comte had sent Stephane and him to the town of Grenoble near the Swiss border. "The town's called for a meeting of the Estates-General," he had grumbled, "and you can be certain the Templars won't stand for it. Our men in Court say the King will soon order their parliamentarians to disperse. Go there, and tie them to their seats if you must – the Estates _must_ be called. Remember the Creed."

Between the two of them, the Assassins had organized a riot in the streets. France had cried out for liberty, equality, and fraternity, or death, as they scaled windows and arches to the tiled roofs of the buildings surrounding Grenoble's city hall. On that day, sharp ceramic had fallen from the sky, cutting down the agents of tyranny.

Mirabeau was impressed. As they all stood in his study by the Seine, he said, "They all climbed with you? Heh, maybe we should recruit the whole town, eh? Well, ah, good works require good rewards…" Shuffling in the first drawer of his desk, the Comte pulled out a pair of Hidden Blades and held one out to Connor, looking down as he did so.

Connor asked him, "How does the city react?"

"In Paris, they've begun calling it the Day of the Tiles. Not quite as dramatic as your Tea Party, mind you, but the effect is similar – the King must listen. At least you didn't chuck phalluses at them!"

Stephane was given his Hidden Blade as well, and asked Mirabeau, "What now? Will the Estates be called?"

The Comte sat down at his chair and said, "That Commander let the representatives meet nearby in Vizille after the fighting. They've again called for the Estates-General to meet. So, yes, get ready, you two – the first blood has been shed."

* * *

That night, the Comte presided over their (second) initiation, high above the _cour de miracles_ found along the Rue Reaumur in a nearby convent tower, just to the northeast of the Tuilleries.

These courts were home to many a murderous rogue and false beggar – those who had feigned infirmities in the city became cured at their home in the court. Walking through the filthy streets, Connor had espied one rather flexible solicitor - he had hidden his leg within his pants, and had only popped it out beside the convent's portal after checking his ill-gotten gains. The streets were unpaved and muddied, and darkness reigned on the night Connor and Stephane were properly initiated into the Assassin order.

"_Laa shay'a waqi'un moutlaq bale kouloun moumkine._ The wisdom of our Creed is revealed through these words." The Comte stepped back, as Marat stood before the two, glancing derisively at Mirabeau.

"Where other men blindly follow the truth, remember…"

"Nothing is true," intoned Connor and Stephane.

"Where other men are limited by morality or law, remember…"

"Everything is permitted."

"We work in the dark to serve the light. We are Assassins. _Rien n'est vrai, tout est permis."_ The voices of the Assassins surrounding arisen as one, repeating the revered maxim of the Brotherhood.

"Well, no time like the present, eh?" Mirabeau asked, practically bouncing on his heels. "Ready to join us? Of course you are. The brand, if you would!"

The Brother standing by the furnace – one butcher named Louis Legendre – grasped the tongs from the furnace and descended upon the initiates before him, brand blazing in the night. When he was through, their left ring fingers had been seared.

Mirabeau began to clap theatrically for the two Americans. "Congratulations, gentlemen! You are now Assassins! And, when we're done here, you can bring these proper ceremonies back to the New World. Hopefully you'll get it right the second time around!"

* * *

_Versailles, France  
__May 5, 1789_

France: on the outside, it appears inviting and sheltering, and oh-so-very grand. But on the inside, its heart is black, long fallen from its glory days under the likes of the Sun King. Just on the way to Versailles, Connor had passed several throngs of beggars outside the gates. They were given no admittance.

Only a month before, riots had broken out in the St. Antoine district of Paris, just to the east of an old fortress called the Bastille. A business owner, one Réveillon, had suggested bread distribution should be deregulated, to allow lower bread costs and lower wages. The populace only heard the bit about lower wages. As the mob ransacked his factory and mansion, burning wallpaper and glue with antique paintings, Réveillon himself fled to the Bastille for safety.

"Madness," Mirabeau had declared, "Madness and stupidity. Truth is more venomous than lies – it can be verified, and twisted to dark ends. A good business destroyed for a fable… Well, our friends in St. Antoine have yet to report any Templar interference. No doubt they've set up shop in Versailles."

Now, the nation is expectant and hopeful. In the grand chateau of woody Versailles, twelve-hundred deputies of the Estates march solemnly to the Church of Saint Louis IX, King of France, where the Bishop of Nancy will perform a Mass and ask God's blessing.

Lining the pathway were the King's personal troops, the Swiss Guard. Garbed in crimson coats, they all foreign, a few shouting commands in German or Italian. They followed any command when given and had extreme discipline. Their commander, a major, surveyed them from horseback and commanded the crowd to make way for the Estates.

The Clergy came first: cardinals, priests, monks, and abbots march through the light of May coruscating over their flowing robes. The Nobility follows: the same light flashed on three hundred hilts, their plumed hats waving triumphant in the breeze.

But before them came the Commons, the Third Estate, absconding in plain black coats; six hundred strong. Those mourning coats were a symbol of pride, however. They had not come to perform for the masses. Leading them was the Comte de Mirabeau. He had attempted to assist the preliminary conference of the Nobility of his district, but had been rejected. He had appealed to the Third Estate and was elected to the Estate in Aix, Provence.

In the crowd, Connor and Stephane were jostled about, until they crossed a young man, with a haunted look about him, with large dark eyes and equally dark hair hanging to his shoulders. He bore an aquiline nose, as well as a slight stutter. He gave Connor and Stephane a wide smile and approached, offering them his hand. "You're the Marquis' c-comrades, yes?"

"Yes. Connor Kenway," he replied, taking his hand. "Who are you?"

"I am Camille Desmoulins. One of m-my old university friends has been elected as a D-deputy. You'll notice him by his great lack o-of humor. Robespierre is his name."

Connor nodded, absent-mindedly. "I will keep an eye out for him."

"Thank you. I'll s-scan the lines for Lafayette, as a small favor."

They turned back to the procession. As the Nobility approached, Camille noticed one man pushing and shoving his way to the front. "Look, there's Orléans!" The Duke was not as portly as his cousin, the King, but had a more dignified air to him, holding his head high before the nobles.

Camille nudged at Stephane's arm. "Look, he's insisting on walking with the Third Estate. That will be the Master of Ceremonies pleading with him. He's broken out in a sweat, poor thing." Louis-Philippe had indeed navigated to the back of the Third Estate's procession, no doubt trying to appear the populist despite his relation to his cousin, the King.

"Let's see, there's Biron… Ah, and here's your Lafayette!" America's hero stepped out briskly in his silver waistcoat, his pale young face serious and hidden under a tricorne hat that was, notably, devoid of any plumage. "How did you come to meet him, Connor?"

The Assassin smiled and said, "We served at Monmouth and Yorktown. I am here at his invitation, as well. Do you know him too, M. Desmoulins?"

"Only by reputation." Camille muttered, "Washington pot-au-feu."

Stephane barked. "I think I'm going to like you, Desmoulins!"

At the Church of Saint-Louis, the billowing episcopal sea parted for a moment, and between the violet robes and the long, billowing sleeves of the attendant priesthood, the King and Queen of France marched down the isle to their respective seats near the front of the church.

The King, Louis XVI, was a plump man with a large face. He had sad eyes and a heavy nose that, in Connor's opinion, were eclipsed by his several chins. His lips were tremulous and his blue eyes shifty. He was dressed in cloth-of-gold that was bound by a great azure cloak emblazoned with fleur-de-lis. The King met Connor's eyes without meaning to, and then he passed.

The Queen, Marie Antoinette, was a great contrast to her husband. She had a strong jaw, inherited from her Hapsburg mother, Maria Theresa. Her hair was powdered, and put up in an outlandish manner, crowned by a small indigo hat stuck with heron feathers that beckoned to him civilly.

The Holy Sacrament in its jeweled monstrance was a small sun, ablaze in a bishop's hands; they took their seat on a dais, under an azure canopy blazoned with gold fleur-de-lis. Then the came the blasted choir…

"Look, there's Maximilien! I must introduce you later. And that's Mirabeau, beside him…" Camille said. "He's starting a newspaper. I'm going to write for it."

Connor asked, "How did you arrange that?"

"I haven't. Tomorrow I will."

Connor and Stephane looked sideways at him. M. Desmoulins was either very confident, very romantic, or very deceitful. Still, if Mirabeau did take him into his employ, they'd see more of this interesting character regardless.

* * *

The Hall of Lesser Pleasures, it was called. Until now it had been used for storing scenery for palace theatricals. These two facts occasioned comment. By order of His Majesty, carpenters and painters had been employed to decorate the place with velvet and tassels, established plaster columns and liberally splashed metallic paint throughout. It was passably splendid, and it was cheap.

There were seats to the right and the left of the throne for the First and Second Estates; the Third was to occupy an inadequate number of hard benches in the back. The crowd that had viewed the procession, meanwhile, were relegated to the furthest-most ends of the hall, behind the great halls of the palace. It was here that Connor, Stephane and Camille were positioned.

Suddenly, horns and cymbals began to clash into the hall. Blue, white, and golden banners were hoisted skyward, pointing to the ceiling. The King was coming. The Estates stood as one and began to sing the Royal Anthem:

_Vive Henri quatre!  
Vive ce Roi vaillant!  
Ce diable à quatre!  
A le triple talent: _

_De boire, et de battre,  
Et d'être un vers galant!  
De boire, et de battre,  
Et d'être un vers galant!_

As Connor and Stephane were not French citizens, they felt no need to join in with the chorus. The Assassins did note, however, that Camille did not join in with the tumultuous voices, folding his arms in reservation.

Connor nudged Camille and asked, "They sing of a King. Henri IV, yes?"

"The f-founder of the House of Bourbon. A P-protestant. '_Paris is well worth a mass.'_" The journalist's lips tightened, and his jaw clenched. "They are cheering the first t-true tyrant of this nation-"

"And his penchant for womanizing," Stephane noted, amused. Indeed, even from here, Mirabeau was practically chortling as he sang the lyrics. Robespierre, several seats back from the Comte, was more solemn in his warbling. "It seems old Henry is pretty popular…"

"Less so in his own time. He was assassinated, mind you…" Camille trailed off darkly, as did the music.

The King's herald entered the hall before the procession, tapping the floor three times with his staff of office. The sound echoed throughout the hall, bringing the din to an expectant silence. "All hail the most high, most potent, and most excellent Prince, Louis of House Bourbon, the Sixteenth of His Name, by the Grace of God, Most Christian King of France and of Navarre, Count of Provence, Forcalquier and the lands adjacent, Dauphin of Viennois, Count of Valentinois and of Diois!"

After the King's solemn entry, he graced them with a rather foolish smile, and removed his plumed hat. Then he sat down, and put it on again. Vibrant ruby mantles and silk cassocks swept and rustled into their places. Three hundred plumes were raised and lowered. But protocol dictates that in the presence of royalty, commoners remain hatless and standing.

A moment later a red-faced man clamped his plain hat over his forehead and sat down with as much noise as he found he could make, the bench clanging at his descent. As one, the Third Estate assumed its seat before the King. The Comte de Mirabeau jostled on the benches with the rest.

Unruffled, His Majesty rose to make his speech. "It is unreasonable, I had thought, to keep these poor gentlemen standing all afternoon, since they have been waiting three hours to be let into the hall. Well, they have taken the initiative! The nation is in need of such great men of action…"

A moment later, the back rows leaned into the front rows, wondering what the King said over such a great distance.

The King continued, "Our intervention in the American War has brought about unprecedented debt upon the realm. During these hard times, it appears that we have been lax in collecting revenue from our loyal subjects amongst the aristocracy. In light of this, it would be best for the current system of taxation to be reformed."

The Minister of Justice rose next. From the table below the Royal Dias, M. Barentin warned against reckless action, dangerous innovation; invited the Estates to meet separately the next day. He sat down.

Jacques Necker was to address the Estates next. The Director-General of Finances rose, to an expectant hush. He began. You could hear him better than Barentin. "Gentlemen; you all know why we are here. It is to remedy a deficit that, left unchecked, could claim the futures of our progeny…" After that, it was figures, figures, figures. Connor surveyed Jacques Necker. A Frenchman of Swiss birth, he had been denied the office of Comptroller of Finances due to his Protestant faith. He had a small mouth, and chin to match it. Still, he had organized the Estates himself, and France viewed him as her savior from financial ruin.

She would be rather disappointed_. _A half hour projected quite well in the great expanse; it was just a shame that none of it made any sense. The Director had now begun to swallow and clear his throat. His voice was fading_. _Finally, he gave in to the inevitable, and shoved his notes across to an aide sitting beside him. The substitute rose and began, his voice creaking through the silence.

Now there was one woman Connor watched: the Queen. She did have an ethereal beauty about her, but took little interest in the deliberations – France's financial crisis was no concern of hers. When her husband spoke, she had frowned, trying to concentrate. Now her eyes wandered; and really, Connor couldn't blame the woman – Necker was still going on about his precious figures. Antoinette surveyed the benches of the Commoners, looking for some face amongst them.

Three hours later, heads reeling, the deputies stumbled out into the sun. A large group gathered at once about Mirabeau, who was dissecting Necker's speech. "… It is the speech, gentlemen, that one might expect from a banker's clerk of some small ability… I do believe he has delivered his own _coup de grâce_!"

Another Deputy had his own following. "The Estates should meet as one body! Votes should be counted individually. Otherwise, the Clergy and the Nobility will combine against us; our double representation will avail us nothing."

Stephane sauntered over to the Second Estate to speak with Lafayette (causing quite a few raised eyebrows from his colleagues.) Connor, meanwhile, moved well out of range of both Estates. He was spotted by Camille, however, and was dragged to a young deputy steering well clear of Mirabeau, perhaps in fear of his fists.

From up close, Camille's friend didn't look like much. He was a small man, thin, and wore a powdered wig with a long, tight curl in the back. It contrasted deeply with his immaculate dark coat. His cravat was high, and his almond-shaped eyes were a light green, gilded by arched eyebrows. He held himself stiffly, and frequently clenched his hands.

Camille provided the introductions. "Maxime, this is Connor Kenway from America. He is here at Lafayette's invitation."

Maximilien de Robespierre gazed at Connor for a while, making him somewhat wary. The young Deputy was obviously trying to gain some measure of the Assassin's character. Finally, he gave a slight smile and politely inclined his head. "A pleasure. I am Maximilien Robespierre, Deputy of Artois."

Connor nodded. "I am pleased to meet you, M. Robespierre. You are in the profession of law?"

"Of a sort." That shy smile had somehow escaped Maximilien's face. "I graduated from Lycee Louis-le-Grand with the proper training to become a lawyer. It has gotten me this far… But I'm sure your tale is far more interesting, M. Kenway. How did you come to meet the good Marquis?"

"We met a Valley Forge, patrolling the camp. He was of great value to the American cause for liberty."

"Well, his valor may be needed here, if things go on as they are. If you would, would you convince him to support voting by head? No doubt he's already given it weight, but you might decide the matter for him. Monsieur." Robespierre politely nodded at Connor, dismissively, and turned back to Camille. "Now, what trouble have you gotten into since I left Louis-le-Grand, Camille?"

* * *

The Marquis swept his ginger hair to the side as he looked up from one of his colleague's speeches. "Well, of course I'll support voting by head! If it's done by order, this whole enterprise will be for naught."

Connor nodded. "Thank you, my friend." The two were Lafayette's expectedly luxurious chambers provided for him at Versailles. They were both seated around an engraved table lighted by a candle. Across Lafayette's chair was draped his velvet cloak of office that he had borne during the procession.

"Anytime, Connor." Lafayette said. "Now this Deputy… Robespienne, is it? You said he was from Artois?"

"Robespierre," Connor corrected. The Deputy had a rather unfortunate name – it had taken the Assassin several times to get it right, under Camille's strict tutelage.

"That's the one!" Lafayette nodded, satisfied. "It sounds as if he's got more sense than the entirety of the Second Estate! They're still insisting on their privileges, their authority, and their rights – I've got my work cut out for me, here… But never mind that – Stephane was here. What's this about you lot and Mirabeau?"

Connor said, "Ah, the nature of our work… It sometimes requires us to associate with… unsavory characters."

"Well, no one would ever accuse the good Comte of being 'savory' – but I must say I envy him; he doesn't have to suffer the stiff necks of our Estate!"

"Do they truly think nothing of the Commoners?"

Lafayette paused, then shook his head. "No... they're mostly ignorant of the hardships that go along with common life. They've not had to go hungry to feed their children, nor had to give their money away to some church bureaucrat. We're not completely without hope, now – I've just joined the liberal Committee of Thirty. Thirty out of three hundred nobles! Ah, but a small hope is better than none..."

* * *

20 June, 1789

Mirabeau and Sieyès walked in step to the Hall of Lesser Pleasures, followed by Connor and Stephane. By this time, the Third Estate had declared itself the National Assembly, and had called on the other Estates to join them. Now the Assembly was simply counting its supporters.

"So, you've brought us nineteen country cures? That brings the deputies that support us in the First Estate to the majority. 151, correct?"

The Abbé Sieyès nodded. "You are right."

Mirabeau said, "Excellent. Now if we could just crack the Nobility, it'd be the icing on the cake. I've spoken to Lafayette-"

"As have I." The Abbé, a member of the Clergy, had been elected by the Commons instead, similar to Mirabeau. "He's said that he might be able to round up a group of thirty supporters, but that's far from what we ne - What's going on up there?"

The Assembly has massed around the door to the Hall of Lesser Pleasures. The entrance has been locked, apparently. One of the deputies cried out, "There were guards earlier! They said it was closed for refurbishment!"

The President of the Assembly, M. Bailly, acted reserved amidst the sardonic japes. Connor went before Bailly and said, "The Swiss Guard could be on us at any moment. We need somewhere to convene, _monsieur_."

Dr. Guillotin, Bailly's fellow academician, is at his elbow. "What about that _jeu de paume_ court down the road?"

Those within earshot stared at him. "I know the manager rather well – I know it wouldn't give us a lot of room, but… Well, anybody got a better suggestion?"

Like a flood, they interrupted a game of _jeu de paume,_ claiming the indoor tennis court. They stood President Bailly up on a table. Overcome by emotion, the scientist assumed an antique pose, raising his right hand.

"Let us all swear an oath! We, the National Assembly, shall not separate, and shall reassemble wherever circumstances require, until the constitution of this kingdom is established!"

Together, as one, the deputies stretched their arms towards the President, in a neo-Roman salute. "We'll see how they stick together when the troops move in," the Comte de Mirabeau said.

* * *

Three days later, when they were back in their own premises in the Hall of Lesser Pleasures, the King turned up at their meeting. In an unsteady and hesitant voice, he declared, "-void, illegal, and unconstitutional the actions of the so-called 'National Assembly', which has met, regardless of my authority! I am the guardian of France's well-being – I will give you a program of reform, and I alone. I order you to disperse at once, and present yourselves, tomorrow morning, in the chambers of your separate orders, there to resume your separate deliberations!"

In silence before him, black coats, bleached cravats, carved profiles: men sitting for their own monuments. Having dismissed them, he gathered his sorry majesty and exited in procession. Mirabeau flew to his feet, and furiously searched for nearby writers and the press, eager for good publicity on his part. The Master of Ceremonies interrupted, "Will you kindly break up this meeting, as His Majesty has ordered?"

Mirabeau responded, with great bombast, by saying, "If you have been told to clear us from this hall, you must ask for orders to use bayonets! Tell His Majesty we all await death; but we shall not separate until we have made the constitution!"

* * *

_26 June, 1789_

"So," Mirabeau began, "we may have overreacted a little bit."

Connor and Stephane stood before in an enclave within the Church of Saint Louis. The Assembly had been deprived of their tennis court by the King, so they had relocated to where the whole sorry affair had begun.

"How so?"

"I told you two weeks earlier that the Dauphin had died. Poor old Louis went into mourning, by which he meant for every affair of state to halt while he sniffled in his bedchambers. Still, the Crown hadn't meant anything _malevolent_ by locking us out…"

"It was certainly ignorant of him," cried Stephane, "The Guard could have come down upon us at any moment!"

"True, but they did not, and so we must be content. We have had some good news, however." Mirabeau gave them a grim smile. "The riots are increasing. The Nobles have joined the National Assembly. The King has allowed it so that we should vote by head than by order. We're very close to our goal, gentlemen… A real constitution."

"What of the Templars?" asked Connor. "They've not made any active moves against the Assembly, have they?"

"Not as yet, no," said the Comte, furrowing his brow in confusion. "It is strange… I'd have thought they'd slink in more than the one tentacle…"

Suddenly, Connor remembered the procession of the Estates. "That man… Desmoulins… have you had any dealings with him?"

"Camille? Ha!" Mirabeau said, "Yes, he's started writing for a little paper I've been producing. He's honest, that one – his fiancée has a _considerable_ dowry. Shame that he's a _republican_…" The Comte practically choked out the word.

"You are not in favor of a republic, monsieur?" asked Stephane.

"God, no! The Brotherhood's always collaborated with monarchies, so long as they were supported the people – Louis could be a Templar, I'll grant you that, but Templars are usually more… smart, really. The King is just bumbling from one mistake to the next. We cannot target him until there is no oth-"

A loud murmuring interrupted their deliberations. Cursing, Mirabeau left the enclave, Connor and Stephane behind him. The Deputies of the National Assembly had stood from their cushioned pews and had begun pushing each other out of the way for a view of the newcomers.

The Nobles had arrived. Forty-six Deputies of the Second Estate, the Marquis de Lafayette at their head, strode into the cathedral. Stopping before the altar, and doffing his tricorne hat, Lafayette bowed his head to President Bailly and said, "M. President, we have come to join you at a late hour. I am sure you've heard the reports of foreign mercenaries camped around the walls of Paris?"

The astronomer nodded and said, "I had thought those to be the regular falsehoods. It is true, then? Are they flying a sigil?"

"_Oui_…The fleur-de-lis of the King."

The Assembly burst in outrage. Maximilien Robespierre made a beeline for the altar, putting his head down to the floor as if to butt any deputies that would dare to block his passage. A few of the Comte's followers – an Assassin or two among them – attempted to grasp the lawyer, but he simply brushed the gnats aside. After gaining leave to speak from the President, M. Robespierre said, "Deputies! We must ask ourselves this: why a King, beloved by 28 million Frenchmen, should surround the throne, with such great expense, several thousand mercenaries – because that is what they are! – paid for by the people of France, to rob them of their rights!"

The deputies rose and erupted into applause. The members of the _Club Benthorn_, in particular, made the loudest noise, some of the Breton Deputies even cheering their colleague. Lafayette joined in beside the altar, while Mirabeau nudged Connor and murmured to him, "The boy's gotten better. His first speech, he had a little trouble projecting – natural, at his age – but he's got some charisma about him, now, doesn't he?"

Connor could only nod. Robespierre, though his voice was high and wheedling, exuded a certain confidence and held to a strict – but admirable - moral code during his speeches to the Assembly. "What shall we do about these mercenaries?"

"As of now? Nothing. I am, however, sending you both back to Paris… Keep an eye on things, you understand. Try to keep the city under wraps – particularly the Palais-Royal – and I'll send you orders regarding these mercenaries before July is out."

* * *

_The Bastille, Paris, France  
__July 2, 1789_

Notre Dame tolled noon. In a dark cell within the old fortress, a decrepit inmate was stirred from his torpor. There was only one torch, and rats hurried to and fro between the bars. He blinked the shadows from his eyes, then twitched, standing up from his prickly bed.

The skeletal man, clasping his dried-out wig, rushed to the grimy window studded by iron bars. Grasping the poles in his bony hands, never minding the pigeon excrement coating them, he cried, so that passerby and the whole neighborhood could hear, "HELP! They are killing the prisoners in here! Please, storm the walls bef-!"

A palace guard knocked him over the head with his bayonet. The prisoner was cut off mid-speech, his eyes rolling back into his head and collapsing onto the stone floor. Spitting on the ground, his guard dragged him back into the dark interior of his cell.

The next day, the Marquis de Sade was transferred elsewhere.

* * *

_Ça ira: _(French) 'It'll be fine!' a phrase popularized by Benjamin Franklin, when asked about the American Revolution during his time in Paris. Would later become a Revolutionary song in France.

_cour de miracles: _(French) Court of miracles, a phrase used to describe the slums of Paris. The Court mentioned here was likely the one that inspired the gypsy domain in "The Hunchback of Notre Dame."

_Laa shay'a waqi'un moutlaq bale kouloun moumkine: _(Arabic) Nothing is true, everything is permitted.

___Rien n'est vrai, tout est permis_: (French) Nothing is true, everything is permitted.

_vers gallant:_ (French) 'The Green Gallant', a nickname for Henry IV, referring to his attractiveness to women… Somehow.  
_  
coup de grace: _(French) blow of mercy

* * *

The Royal Anthem is called _'Vive Henri IV'_. I personally think it's France's best song - after _'La Marseillaise,_' of course. ;)

For supplemental sources on the French Revolution, I'd highly recommend _A Place of Greater Safety_ by Hillary Mantel, and _Fatal_ _Purity_ by Ruth Scurr. And, of course, _A Tale of Two_ _Cities_ really captures the atmosphere of Paris during the Revolution. I think we all know who wrote that one!


	3. The Bastille

**Chapter II: The Bastille**

**"Is it a revolt?"  
****"No, sire; it is a revolution."**

**~ Louis XVI and François de la Rochefoucauld-Liancourt, 14 July 1789  
**

_Palais-Royal  
Rue St. Honoré, __Paris, France  
12 July, 1789_

The _Palais-Cardinal_ it was called, once. During its early years, it has been inhabited by Cardinal Richelieu until his death, when it became the _Palais-Royal._ It later hosted the exiled Stuarts, and the daughter of the dead King Charles married the _duc d'Orléans_. Ever since then, the palace had been the main residence of the junior Bourbon branch. Naturally, the current Duke, Louis-Phillipe II, liberal that he was, allowed a great deal of political dissidence on the premises. It was here that Connor and Stephane had held watch for the past week or two.

In mid-afternoon, approaching 3:00 p.m., the news of Jacques Necker's dismissal reaches the Palais-Royal. The reputation of the mild Swiss financier had been built up with great assiduity – never mind his propensity for loaning money rather than raise a single tax on the Nobility.

"It looks like the whole city's turned up," muttered Chapheau, worriedly: indeed, with the boiling heat of the sun, there came a multitude of civilians to seek shade amongst the famed chestnut trees of the Palais-Royal gardens. They also sought refuge beneath roofed arcades surrounding the garden – nestled between the long succession of arches were many a boutique, café, hair salon, bookshop, and museum.

They were not without drink, either. Countless refreshment kiosks lined the arcades – several fights had already broken out, the most brutal beside the public theaters commissioned by the Duke. The rest of the populace walked through the arcade, going about their day. The palace complex was one of the most important marketplaces in Paris.

Still, one could feel the unease that permeated the rest of the city as clocks began to ring in the new hour. The cafés of the Palais-Royal were frequented by dissidents, and they were out in force. They argued angrily and fearfully of the King's next move. Many spoke of the mercenaries encamped on the Champs-de-Mars.

"These crowds are full of women and children," said Connor. "Through the alleys the populace could be massacred by the Germans. And yet, Mirabeau gave us no orders regarding the King…" The clocks finished striking.

Stephane tugged at his growing beard, now halfway down his neck. "Thirty-two years ago, an Assassin called Damiens tried to kill the old King. Like most regicides, he was hanged, drawn, and quartered."

"What sort of punishment is that?"

"The condemned were hanged from gibbet until near-dead, then they were emasculated, disemboweled, beheaded, and chopped into four pieces," Chapheau said calmly, as if discussing the blistering weather.

Connor winced. "That is barbaric."

"Which is why the punishment for female regicides was only burning at the stake… For _public decency,_ you understa - Oi! What's that boy doing?"

In the doorway of the Café du Foy, within the gardens, a young man with long, dark hair had ascended onto a chair fixed onto a table. Connor recognized the young journalist from Versailles, the friend of the cold deputy. "That is Camille Desmoulins!"

As the journalist gathered his breath – and his courage - a cool breeze drifted across the gardens. "CITIZENS! I come from Versailles! The King has dismissed Necker!" The man's old stuttering had disappeared, as if even it had hidden from the wrath of the tryannical King. Now, Camille projected his voice admirably, with nary a pause or hesitation in his thoughts. The crowd began to murmur and cry out for Necker.

"Yes, citizens – this is the signal for a massacre of loyal patriots! Tonight, the battalions of Swiss and Germans will march from the Champ-de-Mars to cut our throats! We have only one chance to save ourselves! To arms! To arms! The whole of Paris must take up arms!" The journalist leaned out towards the mob, one hand extended, palm upwards, charming it and coaxing it and drawing it on, attempting to harness the power of humanity.

"Citizens – we know the enemy, but we must also know our friends! Let all who are prepared to fight, proclaim it loudly by adopting cockades by which we may know each other!"

A young girl close to the makeshift podium twirled a bit of green ribbon in the air. Camille accepted it from her and held it aloft, crying, "Green, the color of hope! Let it be our symbol, the color of VICTORY!"

Suddenly, Connor began to notice several faces amongst the crowd – those few that had followed Desmoulins here, likely at the King's command. They quietly and suitably began to shift their way through the crowds, as if riding a current towards their target. Already (3:04) he was guilty of a long list of capital offenses and if the crowd let the police take him he'd be finished. Camille, however, spotted them too soon.

"The police! The police are here! Yes, I am the one speaking up for liberty!" At this, Camille pulled out a pistol from his coat and pointed it to the heavens, defiantly. "You won't take me alive! I will die before I see France enslaved! _Vive la liberté!" _Appealing to the congregation, the crowd roared as one, and scattered the agents of tyranny.

_"VIVE LIBERTÉ!" _The crowd sought to engulf Desmoulins, bring him into the fold as they all reached for him. He jumped down into it, now hidden from the Assassins' view. People were crying, cursing, making slogans. They cried "Desmoulins!" throughout the garden, as if he were some horror from an eldritch time before men.

Camille was picked up by the crowd and carried beneath the chestnut trees. A voice screamed, "We need pikes! We need gun and powder!" The people reached into the limbs and boughs of the trees and grasped the green leaves, sticking them into their hats and clothing. A desperate few even climbed onto each others' shoulders to identify themselves as patriots.

By evening, Connor and Stephane had eventually shouldered their way to Camille, as the people let him rest on the ground and began their sanctioned raids on shops and convents. Busts of Jacues Necker and Louis-Philippe were paraded before the procession as Camille noticed the two walking towards him. "Connor! Stephane! You've come to see history in the making, I take it?"

"For good or for ill, yes." Replied Connor. "Do you have a plan for these people, or shall thievery rule the day?"

"No, my friend – I intend to free this city of all its despots!"

The people had gathered pikes for their use – now, hung with greens yards of cloth pilfered from the departments, they appeared to be a moving forest from afar – indeed, as if Nature itself had arisen to throw off the yoke of tyranny, with the blades of the people.

* * *

_Cordeliers District  
Paris, France  
13 July, 1789_

The next afternoon, the city was still in open revolt. Camille, Connor, and Stephane went to the Cordeliers district. "If anyone opposes the King, they will live in the Cordeliers! It is the only sanctuary where liberty has not been violated!" Camille had proclaimed, almost skipping down the streets.

Every now and then he would stop at a crossroads, searching for an office of the law. He found one eventually, with a bronze plaque besides the door labeled _'M. d'Anton'._ On the other side of the door stood a pretty young woman with a pistol in the belt of her riding habit, and her brown hair tied back with a red ribbon and a blue one.

"Still wearing green, are you?" She laughed.

"Has it changed, _Mademoiselle_?" asked Stephane.

"Green has always been the Comte d'Artois' color. He's the King's brother, and advocated crushing the Third Estate, early on. We can't have that – so now it's the Paris colors, red and blue." She smiled at the Assassins with an old affection. "Anne Theroigne," she said. "I own a salon on the _rue de Tournon_."

The woman was obviously well educated, but what stood out to Connor and Stephane was her branded left finger. She, it appeared, noticed theirs as well, and gave them both an imperceptible nod as she looked to the man leading them. "It's good to see you again, and out of your salon, _Mlle!_" Camille said, nodding. "Is Danton within?"

"Perhaps. A few waves have swirled by before you did – no doubt he enjoyed the view... I certainly did. You may catch him before he leaves for the day."

Camille smiled and turned to his companions. "Come, Connor, Stephane! There is someone I want you to meet!"

* * *

"GEORGES!" Camille and Connor ran into a lawyer's office on the second floor. Camille continued past two seated secretaries before halting at a tall and burly man standing before the window, gazing almost wistfully at the rushing crowds below. "Georges, the King has dismissed Necker. If he uses his troops, he's going to get more than he bargained for! Come on!"

The lawyer did not immediately follow Camille across the room. Instead, he turned around and gazed at its inhabitants. Connor's first impression of Georges-Jacques Danton was of a poor man's Mirabeau. He was pocked by smallpox, and bore a broken nose. His bulbous cheeks reminded him of an enormous cherub.

He also bore a deep scar across his lips.

Danton slowly crossed over to one of his colleagues' desks and grabbed their quill from their hand. "My friend, you will have memoirs to write later!" He tossed the quill onto the desk and practically leaped across it into the hall. Turning back, he said, "Maitre Lavaux, come and join us! You've lost your position anyway, the monarchy's finished!"

With that, Danton turned and led Camille and Connor out down the stairs and into the streets, where Theroigne joined them. Danton laughed with delight. He had a deep, resonant voice that rang with authority. "Camille, who're your friends?" Danton turned to Connor and Stephane in midstride and nodded at them, beaming.

"These are Connor Kenway and Stephane Chapheau from America! _Mes amis, _this is Georges Danton."

"_Monsieur_." Connor nodded back politely at Danton. "What's the plan?"

"These people need to be organized. They won't last ten seconds before the mercenaries. I know just the place!" As the marched through the streets, stopping periodically for flowing mobs, Danton spread the word. His voice boomed through the streets as he proclaimed, "An armed militia, tonight, before the convent!_"_

"And you in command?" asked Camille, wryly.

"Naturally!"

* * *

_Cordeliers Convent  
Paris, France  
13 July, 1789_

Either Danton was very popular in his district, or he had deeper lungs than Connor had given him credit for. The inhabitants of the Cordeliers were a radical bunch, being on the outskirts of the city, and they quickly swarmed around the inspirational lawyer, famed for his fevered defenses before the court.

He stood at a makeshift podium before a convent in the Cordeliers, repeatedly pounded the deck to underscore his points and intrigue his audience. Violently gesticulating, he called on his neighbors to take up arms against the regime.

"These foreign troops are a _direct attack_ on the wishes of the _people_, to suppress their _legally elected_ representatives! Shall we let _tyranny_ triumph over _liberty?!_ I will _not_ let _one_ man, in _one_ day, destroy our hope of seeing freedom in France! _NO!"_

The audience echoed his defiance, stamping their feet into the dirtied streets in time with Danton's gestures. He paused for effect, then leaned and pointed out into the crowd, addressing each of his listeners, one on one.

"I want _every man_ here to volunteer! We will show all mankind – we have no fear of this common riffraff bearing down to attack _OUR_ city!"

The Cordeliers cheered, and Danton stepped down from the podium, fist raised in triumph. As he walked back into the streets, he was met by Connor, who asked, "Where do we find weapons?"

Danton only laughed. "Guns from _L' Hôtel des Invalides_, and powder from the Bastille!"

* * *

_Hôtel des Invalides  
Paris, France  
14 July, 1789_

The next day, in the evening, the tocsin tolled and the cannon shot throughout the city, alarming its residents to further unrest. "Soon," Anne Theroigne said, forbodingly. Tugging the ribbons from her hair, she pulled Connor aside and looped them into the buttonhole of his coat. "Red for St. Denis," she said. "Blue for St. Martin."

At six, they were at _L' Hôtel des Invalides,_ negotiating for arms. It had been constructed as a home and hospital for aged and wounded soldiers on the Left Bank of the River Seine, just across from the Champs-de-Mars. Nowadays, the barracks served more as a military warehouse.

The camp of the Royal troops and their foreign mercenaries hovered on the horizon like a swarm of locusts, threatening to devour everything in their path. Stephane turned towards the Champs-de-Mars and said, "Let's get this over and done with. I don't like the looks of those Germans."

The rays of the early sun blazed on the fixed bayonets across the road. "They'll not come," Camille said, and they didn't.

The journalist was granted an audience with the commander and calmly requested the right to arm the citizens of Paris, as he looked upwards into the mouths of the cannon, where soldiers stood with lighted tapers in their hands. When the negotiations were over, there was running and shouting. The Marquis de Sombreuil opened his armaments to the masses – 30,000 empty muskets were claimed, with just as many pikes and bayonets.

"Come, then!" Camille sang. "Patriots and friends, we are ready! The Bastille!"

* * *

_The Bastille, Saint-Antoine District  
Paris, France  
14 July, 1789_

The Bastille Saint-Antoine was of a comparable height to the other buildings of the St. Antoine district. Nevertheless, it still proved imposing with its cavernous dry ditch, drawbridge, thick walls, and eight great towers that guarded the perimeters. In the mid-morning, Connor pushed his way to the outer gate, where the people cried for the release of its arms and gunpowder, as well as the removal of the cannon and the surrender of the prison.

_Those cannon won't hit anything from this angle,_ thought Connor, peering up at the wall. Indeed, they appeared to serve only as decorative motifs for the fortress. This did little to sate the crowd, however.

"Let us through! By God, let us through!" A path was opening betwixt the congregation to admit two formally-dressed representatives from the _Hôtel de Ville_, the building housing Paris's administration. It was shouted through the streets that they have been invited by the Governor to formal negotiations. The gates to the outer courtyard of the fortress opened just a smidge, and with an ominous _thud_, they disappeared behind the oaken door.

Two hours passed. The sun hung overhead, and another representative was admitted around noon with definite demands. The negotiations dragged on while the crowd grew and became impatient. The people shouted and chanted for the surrender of the Bastille, until a man cried, "Get a battering ram," and another, "Push it down!" As one, the press of the people eventually splintered the outer gate.

Around 1:30, the crowd surged into the undefended outer courtyard, with cries of, "_VIVE LA LIBERTÉ!"_ What few guards remained in the courtyard whooped triumphantly and took up the call, joined the mob as it poured to the inner ditch and, on its far side, the great drawbridge of the Bastille.

Connor immediately noticed that the only way into the inner fortress would be past the bridge. "Stephane, with me!" He slide into the great ditch and climbed up onto the other side, Chapheau behind him, and began to climb the great wall. He easily searched for crooks and outcroppings by which he could ascend. If the guards saw him, they gave no indication – they still appeared too hesitant to use gunfire with the mob in the outer court.

They were now just below the battlements. Connor leaped onto the gaffs keeping the drawbridge up, and slashed through the chains trailing towards the windlass of the gatehouse.

The bridge fell with a crash, crushing one unfortunate militiamen below. _"Mon dieu! Aide! Mes jambes!"_

Stephane winced with phantom sympathy, as the Swiss Guard above the gatehouse took aim at them. Their commander cried, _"Feuer öffnen!" _and they let opened their magazines at the Assassins. Stephane yelped as his wrist was sliced through, and he jerked onto the fallen chain. Connor followed him down as the guards opened fire.

When they reached the bottom, an officer of the French Guard trotted before the inner gates of the Bastille, commanding a company of seventy men armed with five cannons from the _Hôtel de Ville_ drawn up to the bridge_._ "Sergeant Hulin," the man offered to Connor, doffing his tricorne politely from his high horse, "we have come to restore order to this district._ Ouvrez le feu, hommes!"_ The cannon roared as their shot wrecked and splintered the gate.

* * *

Two hours later, at 5:00 in the afternoon, the artillery fire wore had down the prison. The gate, splintered and beaten, was opened. One of the veterans within opened the gate and asked what they wanted. _"THE BASTILLE!"_ They cried. At this, the gates groaned open. A white flag danced from within the fortress, beckoning the Parisians into their prize.

There, _Invalides_ were lined on the right, and the Swiss Guard on the left, their arms braced against the inner wall. They applauded the people their bravery and cried, "bravo" to the triumphant besiegers as they flooded into the inner courtyard. The commoners embraced the staff officers as they entered.

However, a few soldiers posted on the platforms within were unaware that the fortress had been surrendered, and opened fire on the people below. Their revenge was swift. The crowd returned fire, and Guards fell from their high platforms as the mob swarmed of their foundations, bringing them tumbling onto the pikes below. The officers' quarters were broken into and furniture, doors, and windows were all smashed by the people.

From one of these apartments, an old, wrinkled officer Bastille was dragged into the courtyard, escorted by two of the French Guard. He wore a gray frock coat and bore a green, eight-pointed cross on his breast. In his right hand was clasped an iron cane.

"You are the Governor, yes?" asked Connor.

"_Oui_, I am Bernard-René Jourdan, marquis de Launay," The titles now ground out of him, the governor looked around him, breathless and fearful. "We… we had just come to an agreement, a surrender, the represe-" He was silenced by the butt of a bayonet, which crashed into his side.

_"Belay that!"_ Sergeant Hulin galloped up to the Governor and dismounted. He doffed his hat inclined his head, saying, "We formally accept your surrender, Governor. Now, we will escort you to th-"

The Marquis quickly flourished the cane from his side, and drew a Hidden Blade from the stick itself. He aimed for his own stomach, but Stephane rushed him and knocked the weapon from his hand. "You are hereby placed under arrest, Governor," the sergeant continued, unabated, "and we shall escort you to the _Hôtel de Ville_, to await trial for crimes against the people of Paris."

* * *

The French Guard dragged the Governor before the people and into the streets, before the jeering and lewd masses of St. Antoine. They pressed around de Launay, shouting and spitting, "Kill him!" Members of the French Guard attempted to protect him, shielding him with their bodies. But by the Church of Saint-Louis, some of the crowd tore him away from them, spat at him and clubbed and kicked him to the ground. When Sergeant Hulin and the French Guard rescued him, his face was streaming blood, his hair had been torn out in handfuls and he was limping along the path.

As they approached the _Hôtel de Ville_, the crowd pushed in around them. The commoners shouted for the governor's blood, and reached out for him, wanting to rip, to tear into his fine clothing, his sallow flesh. Crushed and panic-stricken, de Launay flung his arms wide; they were grasped at both sides by the ravenous mob.

The badly beaten de Launay shouted _"Enough! Let me die!" _Tormented, he struggled and lashed out with his foot. It made contact with the groin of what appeared to be a cook, judging by his apron. The man screamed in shock and agony. He fell to his knees, clutching himself.

Connor stepped from behind him and eyed the prisoner. After one second's hesitation, he took a pace forward and pushed his Hidden Blade into de Launay's stomach. As it was withdrawn, de Launay stumbled forward onto the points of six more weapons. Someone hammered repeatedly at the back of his head with a big piece of wood. His protectors stepped back as he was dragged into the gutter.

The Assassin knelt above the dying Governor and grasped his coat. "Tell me what the Templars are planning!"

De Launay replied, "W-what? There've been no F-french Templars since the Middle Ages…."

"You lie." Connors grip tightened, and de Launay choked out blood onto his torn frock coat. "You imprisoned the citizens of Paris and of France within the Bastille and were prepared massacred them all, every one-"

"Truly you do not b-believe such warbling? Go into the c-cells, and in all the fortress, you will only f-find seven prisoners. They were not put there to protect the K-king – they were put there to protect _themselves!"_

"Templars are well known for their deceit. Why should I trust you?"

"I've just said, I'm not a Templar! I a-am a Lazarite! Our Order is dedicated to healing and rejuvenation! And you have u-undone all our works in a single day…"

"They were poor works. The country starved, and the people lived in fear. But no more."

"Truly? So simple as that?" De Launay chuckled, and more blood bubbled from his throat. "The peoples' terror has only just begun, Assassin! Now, let me die!"

Connor nodded and sliced de Launay's sagging throat. With a last, rattling breath, the Governor of the Bastille died. The cook from earlier hobbled forward and pushed Connor aside. He brandished a knife, face still twisted in agony, and knelt down beside the body. He eventually severed de Launay's head. By the end of the day it was set atop a pike, its bloodied, grinning visage towering above the city like a warning.

* * *

_Paris, France  
17 July, 1789_

Louis XVI and his family returned to Paris in a poor carriage drawn by six great horses, flanked by a hundred delegates from the National Assembly, their heads raised high, marching diligently with a funereal air. A King, whose name only the day before made the entire nation tremble, now heard for the first time cries of, _"VIVE LA NATION! VIVE LA LIBERTÉ!"_

Paris was jubilant, with joyous citizens hanging from buildings and trees, women leaning out of high windows, all welcoming, applauding, and delighting in the procession. Before a convent, some monks had pinned on their cassocks the new patriotic cockade – a rosette of red and blue, the colors of Paris.

At the gates of Paris, the Mayor of the Paris Commune, President Bailly, met the King and presented him with the historic keys to the city. As they continued on to the Hôtel de Ville, Louis could see his own soldiers amid the newly-formed citizen militia begun by Danton in the Cordeliers, the National Guard. They lined the route, having sworn an oath to defend the Revolution and maintain public order.

On the bloodied steps of the _Hôtel de Ville,_ General Lafayette greeted them in a new uniform, a pristine, navy blue coat adorning his person as he sat astride a white charger. The General had been elected Commander of the National Guard. He had adapted the red and blue cockade for the uniforms of his National Guard by adding white, the color of the House of Bourbon.

"Your Majesty, we are at your command!" Lafayette drew his sword and thrust it skyward, in acclamation of the King, his National Guard following suit, declaring their loyalty to their King and their Country. Danton did so only reluctantly, it seemed, as he hesitated in drawing his saber.

"Why Connor, I do think Lafayette's letting this go to his head," joked Stephane within the crowd.

"Perhaps… Be sure to mock him for this later."

"It would be my greatest honor."

Bailly then presented Louis XVI with one of these cockades. Surrounded by revolutionaries, the King really had only one choice. His Majesty gamely pinned it on his plumed hat, to cries of "VIVE LE ROI! VIVE LA NATION!" As the people roared in triumph and rapture, his Queen turned and reentered the carriage, remarking scathingly, "I did not know I had married a commoner…"

* * *

_The Bastille, Saint-Antoine District  
__Paris, France  
17 July, 1789_

After the King departed, back to Versailles, Mirabeau led the Deputies to the Bastille, Robespierre at his tail. The comte suddenly recalled his own internment for his earlier immorality. As the crowd in the rue Saint-Antoine parted before the triumphal procession, people threw flowers into the street. His servants were already transferring books and manuscripts into Mirabeau's carriage.

Inside the prison, he said, "Show me the dungeons." Mirabeau went on boldly, Stephane and Connor behind him, navigating the labyrinth, knocking on decrepit and ancient walls to check for secret underground passages from which enemies of the Revolution might suddenly burst forth. All they found were a bunch of dirty old relics.

"Go on, boys, take anything you like! It'll last longer," said the comte, peering over a pair of rather rusty manacles. Stephane, meanwhile, had located a rather crooked cleaver from the kitchens.

Connor did some looting of his own. A long roll of parchment, left to rot in a high cell, was titled _"__The 120 Days of Sodom__."_ The author's name was written thus: "marquis de Sade." The last entrance was dated to only a few days before the fall of the Bastille. Engrossed, Connor read on…

Later, he hurriedly crumpled the paper and left the cells, face burning in embarrassment and disgust. He came blinking into the light, and stood witness as Mirabeau climbed one of the eight towers, lifted a pickaxe, and brought it down on the battlements. The comte did not stop hammering at the wall until the first of the feudal bricks had been totally dismantled.

* * *

_Ile Saint-Louis, Paris, France  
18 July, 1789_

Mirabeau glowered at Connor, Stephane, and Anne Theroigne. They were once again in Mirabeau's apartments, just several blocks away from Lafayette's. The sun was setting in the west, and the fiery horizon only enhanced the comte's fury. "Excellent work, _monsieurs!_ We've now a forest of heads within the capital! The Comte d'Artois has fled to Savoy, and half the court with him! You've succeeded in painting a great target on Paris – nay, all of France!"

"So, we're up to our heads in… heads?" asked Anne, grinning. She was leaning on a nearby bookcase next to a portrait of one of Mirabeau's esteemed ancestors, twirling the hilt of a lorgnette between her thumb and forefinger.

"This is no time for your japes, woman! Paris hangs by a thread! I don't give a fig how many times Lafayette declares the Guard for the King – first sign of trouble, they'll split right down the middle. Now, that man who started the militia – Danton, yes? – he and Camille were absent when the Bastille was stormed. Why?"

"They both have their own families to tend to. Perhaps they had gone to see their well-being…?" offered Connor.

Stephane was ecstatic. He leaped up from his cushioned seat and proclaimed jubilantly, "Well, they certainly missed a show! Ah, you should have seen them, Mirabeau! With the power of the people, why, we may not even need the Assassins!"

Mirabeau was silent for a moment, then, jaw clenched, nails scratching his desk in restraint, he said, "Let this be your first lesson as an Assassin, Stephane Chapheau: for every man that desires liberty, there are ten more that desire power. You will not change the nature of man at the point of a bayonet; on the contrary, they embrace it even more then. No, ours is an eter-"

_"'An eternal struggle,'_ yes, and no thanks to you, _Riquetti_!" announced Marat by the window. Connor had not even noticed his entrance. "You have forever coddled and caressed the Capets, why stop now?"

"And I have told _you_, Marat, that this sort of thing is best done _delicately!"_ thundered Mirabeau. "This is not America! We are surrounded by enemies on all sides! Austria, Prussia, Spain – hell, I'm sure even Britain will weasle their way in this somehow, they always do! The Great Powers will not sit idly by as Paris becomes a madhouse!"

"It has always been a madhouse – it is only boiling over."

Mirabeau scoffed and asked, "So tell me, Marat, what do we know about these 'Lazarites', as M. Kenway described them?"

"You'll be wanting Voltaire's notes, I take it?"

"That would be good of you, yes – try not to hurt yourself."

Marat nodded and shuffled from the room, clutching papers beneath his armpit. Mirabeau let loose a long-suffering sigh and shook his head. "You'll have to forgive our good Doctor – he's _Prussian_, you see. And he studied medicine in _Scotland_. Still, that does make for a rather volatile combination, all things considered…"

"I've found them!" Marat had returned with a plain black notebook with a silver _V_ imprinted on the cover. He opened the small tome and shuffled through the pages. "Let's find what dirty secrets the Tutor had, eh-?"

"That won't be necessary," the comte said quickly, looking just a touch embarrassed. "Just skip to the sub-sections of the Hospitaller Order. They bear an eight-pointed cross – green. Ironic, that…"

"Ah yes! The Knights of St. Lazarus. Founded after the First Crusade, just like all the others," the doctor intoned. "They dedicated themselves to eradicating leprosy and similar maladies from the Earth. I am proud to say that medical science has beaten them to it! None of these _aristos_ even went to a single day of medical school!"

"Why were they so interested in leprosy…?" asked Stephane, with a dull interest.

"It was because they _were_ lepers, M. Chapheau," Marat answered, his eyes taking a dark interest in the page before him. "They were a branch of the Hospitallers, and they sought holy relics to heal their own leprosy, as Christ did of old."

Connor asked, "What interest do they have in the Revolution?"

"After King Philip IV – the Fair One - wiped out the Templars in France, the Lazarites quickly filled the void left behind. They've held sway over the Royal Court ever since."

"And how would the Templars fit into this…?"

"Antoinette." Marat's eyes pierced into Mirabeau's. "The Hapsburgs would be a nice fit for the Templars, don't you think? And what better way to gain control of France than have one of their own breed and rear the Dauphin in their teachings?"

The Comte's lips pursed, and his brow furrowed. "Very well thought out… But you err, I think. The Austrian Emperor is the _Hochmeister_ of the Teutonic Knights, not the Templars. Still, for the sake of argument, let us then suppose that the Hospitallers and the Teutons are at blows, and have been for several centuries. Could we not find common ground with Louis?"

"You would befriend a madman to slay a murderer? It does not matter if their cross is red, green, white, black – these Knights are tyrants, one and all! The only common ground to be found with Louis is the grave!"

"Well, thanks to this lot, we've got a great deal of potential Lazarites gathering support in exile. While we deal with the fallout, they'll be plotting their revenge, mark my words!"

Anne shook her head. "As Assassins, it is our duty to kill those that would threaten humanity's freedom. Do you deny that de Launay was a Lazarite?

"I only deny how you _did it,_ damn you! A proper assassination is carried out _in the dark, _with _no witnesses,_ not dragged through the streets and foisted on a stick! Who _came up_ with that idea, anyhow? Vlad Dracul?" The comte snorted, then stood. "Well, there's no turning back now. The Assembly's returned to Versailles, and I intend to lead the Revolution from there!"

As he stormed from the room, Connor turned to Marat and asked, "You said the Lazarites sought relics. Do these things really hold any power?"

"Ah, I forget, you two are Novices. Tell me, do either of you know of the First Civilization?"

* * *

_Mlle._: (French) Abbreviation of _'Mademoiselle'_, the title of an unmarried woman.

_Invalides_: (French) Veteran soldiers no longer suitable for field combat.

_Hochemeister:_ (German) Grand Master.

* * *

_Marat's my favorite character, I can already tell. He's just so deliciously incendiary… If that makes any sense. The Friend of the People is brutally honest. More brutal, than honest, but hey, what can you do?_

_After de Launay was killed, the mob turned on Jacques de Flesselles, provost of the Parisian merchants, and was shot on the steps of the Hôtel de Ville. He joined de Launay later on top of a pike. Who came up with that idea, anyway?! _

_I just got an image of really tasteless bobblehead dolls commemorating the day's events. They'd probably sell better than a chunk of the Bastille, at any rate!_

_The chivalric orders of the Templars, the Hospitallers and the like have always fascinated me, but I never liked how Assassin's Creed just bunched them all up as Templars. Surely, we need some inner conflict, right? For instance, the Teutonic Knights conquered the Baltic and created the Kingdom of Prussia. The Templar-Lazarite conflict, meanwhile, easily correlates to the Bourbon-Hapsburg rivalry._

_Alas, I couldn't help slipping in "The 120 Days of Sodom." I've never read it, and I would not recommend looking for it on any website either… At least if you're not into that sort of thing…_

_More from Lafayette next chapter!_


	4. March on Versailles

_That'sa lotta cursing. Should I raise the rating? Hm... Well, you've been warned!_

* * *

**Chapter III: March on Versailles**

**"Men had captured the Bastille, but it was women who captured the King."  
~ Jules Michelet**

_Hôtel de Lafayette, 183 rue de Bourbon  
Paris, France  
12 August, 1789_

The _Hôtel de Lafayette_ had always been a rather lively place. The Marquis was married, and though it had been arranged, his partnership with Adrienne de Lafayette could only be described as sincere. When Connor knocked on their door in August, at 183 rue de Bourbon_,_ it was Mdm. Lafayette who answered. She curtseyed and said, "Ah, hello again, M. Kenway! Please, come in!"

The Marquise wore a silver gown with pink lacing. Her powdered hair had been put up, and was topped by a small leather hat, imbued with down feathers. Her face was kind and fair, her bearing lofty and tender.

"Mdm. Adrienne." Connor politely inclined his head towards her, smiling, and slunk into the hallway, meeting the eyes of a small child hidden between the rails of the embroidered staircase above him.

"There's Georges – Anastasie and Virginie should be upstairs, I think. Gilbert's with his associates – you know the whole crowd." She directed him into the salon, where three men sat at a clothed table.

Thomas Jefferson perused the document before him, his ink-stained fingers gliding softly over the words as he concentrated, his sharp nose bent over the article precariously. His equally sharp eyes flicked back up to Lafayette and he raised his head, pushing his scraggly blond hair out from his face, saying, "Well. They say that imitation is the greatest form of admiration. I must thank you on that count."

"Ah, Connor! You're late, you know," said the man sitting next to Jefferson. He picked up the parchment that Jefferson had been reading earlier and waved it theatrically. "Straight off the presses – the trial presses, of course." Connor received the document and read the title: "_DÉCLARATION DES DROITS DE L'HOMME ET DU CITOYEN__._"

Connor looked back up at the man he could only describe as having a jolly face. He had a large, fleshy nose and a mouth that was quick to smile. His light brown eyes twinkled eerily, and his receding brown hair was now streaked with gray. Coincidentally he shared a common name with the American Minister to France.

When Thomas Paine had introduced himself to Connor, he had called himself, "a corsetmaker by trade, a journalist by profession, and a propagandist by inclination." The Englishman's political pamphlets, "_Common Sense"_ and "_The American Crisis"_, had inspired the Patriots to declare independence from Great Britain in 1776. Paine now hoped to inspire that same spirit in France.

Thomas Paine smiled and said, "Our good Minister here had quite a bit to add to this particular draft. You are leaving us too soon, Mr. Jefferson! I cannot think how we shall get on without your _guiding_ presence!"

"Franklin guided us. I never wanted to replace him – I was only here to succeed him. I've done all I can to correlate with the National Assembly, and I did write up that charter of rights for the King. But the Constitution has come into effect at home, and we have a President. It's time I return to Philadelphia."

"Before you go, let's speak on this a little. There's this concept of 'passive citizens'… namely, excluding poor men, women, and _slaves, _from having the vote." At that, Paine turned a sharp glance at Jefferson – the twinkle had his eye dimmed somewhat, and his smile became cold. Paine's abolitionist tendencies were well known, as was Jefferson's plantation at Monticello.

"The women won't stand for that, in particular," quickly interjected Lafayette, sensing a confrontation brewing. "Still, this is only a rough draft – a more complete version will be hammered out in the Assembly."

"Only 'active' citizens may join the National Guard, yes, Lafayette?" Connor asked, stepping forward.

The Marquis nodded. "It's a shame – No one should be barred from the French Guard! Why, I would think they'd be more fervent in defending the Kingdom!"

"That can be decided in the proper committees, then," Paine uttered, dryly. "It always is. Well, we've kept our scribe longer than he'd like, it seems – go on, the port's not going anywhere! We'll keep your seat warm for you!"

Lafayette nodded and stood with Jefferson, saying, "Please give my regards to the Commander-in-Chief. And I'd also like to be the first Frenchman to congratulate General Washington on his new Presidency!"

Jefferson nodded, gathering his papers, a copy of the _"Declaration of the Rights of Man" _on the top of his stack of papers. "I would be honored. Did you hear? He was elected President unanimously! Ah, that will be a tough record to beat…"

* * *

_Paris, France  
2 October, 1789_

"Have you heard the news?" croaked Jean-Paul Marat, removing a page from the printing press in his abode. The paper was titled "_L'AMI DU PEOPLE"_, 'The People's Friend.' The front article was titled in bold headlines, telling of yet another scandal in Versailles, involving a regiment arriving at the palace. Marat's apartment was littered with forgotten experiments and piles of paper, each one awaiting their audience with the press.

"Does it involve food?" Chapheau asked rhetorically. He and Connor stood rather uncomfortably in the room, avoiding boxes and vials filled with unknown liquids. Indeed, many of Marat's tirades had already attacked the opulent House of Bourbon, whilst the city of Paris starved, not twelve miles away.

"The Flanders Regiment arrived at Versailles last night – the King threw a banquet for them! The city starves, and they feasted on the bones of the people! The Queen personally opened her legs for those officers, and the tricolor cockade was stamped on by these defenders of tyranny!" Marat's voice had become hysterical with righteous fury – he had now begun to ink the text blocks of the next page.

Connor tsked, and handed Marat another sheet of paper. "You're too harsh – you would have bawled Bacchanalia at a packed lunch in the grounds."

"What's this? Have you been taking lessons in wit from _Riquetti_, M. Connor?" Snorting, Marat extricated another page from the press and laid it on a nearby table to dry. "That man will not lead the Brotherhood down its proper road, _monsieurs_. The Bastille was a good start – now we need to tighten the noose."

"The Bastille-," Connor unfolded his arms and stepped (gingerly) towards the printing press. "Marat, this is insane! Assassinations should not be a public spectacle! De Doué was hanged from a lantern on the steps to the Hôtel de Ville – before Lafayette's eyes! Camille Desmoulins is calling himself the 'Lanterne Attorney' – they are beginning to revel in violence. This must end!"

"De Doué told the People to eat hay – and now he rots atop a pike. A convenient nest in the sky, no? The world is changing, _monsieurs_, and the monarchy has no place in it." Extracting another page, he paused and leveled a curious gaze at the Novice. "Do you? We do not need heroes – what we need are heads."

* * *

_Court of Miracles, Rue Reaumur  
Paris, France  
4 October, 1789_

Hungry and outraged, Paris rioted. A baker was murdered by the mob and General Lafayette and his cockade-wearing National Guard struggled to keep order.

"There are people in the city calling for a march on Versailles," said Stephane as he and Connor followed Anne Théroigne through the Court of Miracles on the _Rue Reaumur_, the Assassin headquarters. After the mobs had been quelled – just – by Lafayette, Théroigne had called on them in the Palais-Royal, looking rather more ragged than usual, her riding habit smudged and her plumed hat askew.

"Don't get too excited, M. Chapheau – de Saint-Huruge called for one back in August. Still, this news about the feast…" Anne surveyed the poor masses of the Court. Filthy, dressed in rags, they slumped against the walls of tipsy buildings, women quivering in shawls, pale children and babes tucked in their arms, men slumped against porches, clad in patched coats, the looks of hopelessness on their faces like etchings on gravestones.

She sighed. "It is people like these we seek to lift, gentlemen. The tired, huddled masses, with only one friend between them… The People's Friend." Her lips twitched at that, suppressing a mad cackle. "I'm sure Mirabeau got a kick out of that, eh?"

Connor replied, "It doesn't take much to amuse Mirabeau, mind you… Speaking of which, have you read Marat's recent paper? The King's rejected the Rights of Man!"

"Only some of it, M. Kenway. If he had rejected it, this city would have gone up in flames by now. No, the King is much like Mirabeau – change is good, but only some!"

Connor smiled at Anne. "It will come. Like the shifting of the tides, this city will prosper once again, with the People at its helm. Patience is the best course of action, for now."

She gazed at Connor heatedly, and for a moment he guessed at her thoughts: _You are too fond of Lafayette. You are too fond of his King._ Anne broke the bond and, looking back to the Court, said only, "Patience is a valuable commodity, M. Kenway. One which none of us can afford any longer."

* * *

_Saint-Antoine District, Paris, France  
Sunday, 5 October, 1789_

It began in the east, where the shadow of the Bastille had once fallen. In the morning, drums rolled in the market as the women, infuriated by the chronic shortage and high price of bread, dispersed into the the markets of Faubourg Saint-Antoine, the angry women forced a nearby church to toll its bells. Their numbers grew as they marched, and more women from other nearby marketplaces joined in, many bearing kitchen slicers and other makeshift weapons, as the tocsins rang from church towers throughout the city of Paris.

One of the men was the audacious Stanislas-Marie Maillard, a prominent_ vainqueur _of the Bastille, who preached to the market women. Maillard was a long, gaunt figure, like Death in a picture book. His energy, however, was palpable – he paced to and fro, gesticulating violently for the crowd's sake.

Most of those surrounding Maillard were large, brawny women, with brawny muscles and sharp cleavers. "_Poissardes_," Anne explained at Connor's raised brow. "They stock fish by the harbors. Not good enemies to have, not at all…"

She sounded rather envious, at that. Connor was only half listening, as Maillard shouted above the crowd, "…They have bought off the millers of France – one man can play the market by refusing for weeks to grind his flour, despite having been paid!" The women stamped their feet in outrage, shrieking in outrage, calling for bread for their starving children.

Maillard responded by declaring, "The Dauphin prances on tables laden with bread while we work ourselves to the bone! Grain rots in the cellars of Versailles! Citizens, the common denominator is the House of Bourbon! They have stolen the food of the people – they want to keep you weak, so that you cannot rise up and demand your rights as women! There is only one solution! _À Versailles!"_

"_À VERSAILLES!" _The market women rushed into the streets sweeping up the women they met, exhorting and threatening them. Anne rushed past them towards an intersection up ahead, Connor and Stephane close at her heels. A loud, raspy voice made its way into their ears, croaking a similar message to Maillard's. Anne pursed her lips and continued towards the agitator.

Anne stopped right as they reached the intersection, releasing a teasing sigh of exasperation. "Ah, there's Marat again…"

Marat was standing on a crate on the street corner, quoting a book held in his left hand – Rosseau's _"Social Contract:" __"-uth, laws are always useful to those with possessions and harmful to those who have nothi-"_

The People's Friend had a smaller crowd about him, yet the message of Rousseau was timeless. The commoners surrounding him began to chant the name 'Marat', and charged him to go with them to Versailles. "Yea, citizens! I shall go to the National Bakery!" Sardonic laughter. "Like as not, Madame Veto will spoil the flour, otherwise!"

"Marat!" Connor pushed his way through the modest crowd right beside the doctor's cart, ignoring the curses and jabs directed his way. "Are we going then? To Versailles?"

"Yes," Marat answered. "I cannot speak for the National Guard – but if they supported us, they would lead us there, would they not?!" The people shouted in the affirmative, and he nodded, satisfied, and climbed off his soapbox. "Come – they're meeting near the _Hôtel de Ville."_

* * *

In the _Place de Grève,_ the crowd collected arms. Seven thousand women gathered pikes and musketry. Anne and Stephane looked rather uncomfortable – the public square had been the execution site of many an Assassin. Indeed, the Place had seen bloodshed very recently – the mob had hanged several Nobles already, up on the Lantern by the street corner.

Marat, however, seemed quite at ease and, striding, with a bounce in his step, joined up with Maillard on the steps of the _Hôtel_.

The _vainqueur_ had already been busy with damage control - he rescued the _hôtel's_ quartermaster, who had been strung up on The Lanterne for trying to safeguard its stores. The _hôtel_ itself was sacked as the mob washed through, pilfering its provisions and weapons. Soon, however, their attention turned again to Versailles. Maillard deputized a number of women as group leaders and gave a loose sense of order to the proceedings as he led the crowd out of the city in the driving rain.

As they crossed onto the _Île de la Cité_, the Assassins caught up to Marat astride a lean carrier horse, chomping at the bit as the mob chanted for bread. He had several lengths of parchment clasped in his right hand along with the reins.

"So, come to join the throng, eh? First thing you'll want to do is report to Mirabeau in the Assembly. He'll likely blame me for this – he'll be right, of course, but it's the thought that counts."

* * *

_Versailles, France_

By the time the procession reached Versailles, they had been joined by another group from the city of Versailles itself. Connor's boots were coated in mud, his hood drooping with moisture, and Stephane's beard dripped all along the road. The air was cold, and the rain reduced them all to chills. The sky was dark overhead, and lightning pierced the heavens.

"Well, this is where we must part, _monsieurs!"_ Marat turned the horse's head back to Paris by tugging on the reins and said, "A good journalist is nothing if not punctual. If I get back before dark, I should be able to print tomorrow's paper. Truth or death!" Digging his heels into the horse's flanks, he darted north like lightning, making as much noise as the four trumpets of the Last Judgment summoning the dead to rise. Water splashing from puddles as he galloped, women cheered his name, wishing him well.

When the crowd finally reached Versailles it was met by another group that had assembled from the surrounding area. Members of the National Assembly greeted the drenched marchers and invited Maillard into their hall.

"... We have come with very simple demands, fundamental to the liberty of humanity. We have come to Versailles to demand bread for the People, and to request the punishment of the royal body-guards who have insulted the patriotic cockade."

As he spoke, the restless Parisians came pouring into the Assembly and sank exhausted on the deputies' benches. Hungry, fatigued, and bedraggled from the rain, they seemed to confirm that the siege was a simple demand for food. They hitched up sodden skirts, jostling the deputies and making jokes, calling for Mirabeau, who was even now mingling among them familiarly, cracking crude jokes about the Court.

In Mirabeau's place, however, another Deputy stood, and asked for leave to speak. "The Chair recognizes Maximilien Robespierre, Deputy of Artois!"

Robespierre, neat, composed, and immaculate, strode towards the tribune. Climbing up the steps, his spectacled eyes flicked compassionately over the ragged women behind Maillard. Now at the podium, he declared, "These people have done what is good and orderly in any society – they have brought their wishes to this Body, and the Body must hear them. I move that we order an inquiry into the food shortages menacing the capital!"

Many of the Deputies stood and applauded. Motioning for silence, Robespierre continued, "This food shortage is no accident, _monsieurs_. I have come forth to expose a deliberate and despicable conspiracy! There are those within the city that play the system. Once paid, they refuse to grind their flour, and bring it here to Versailles, and at a much higher price! The Royal Family must be held accountable for this heinous crime!"

As one, the Deputies rose, some in protest, some in acclamation. The women were enthused. They chanted Robespierre's name as he stepped down from the podium. Connor recognized that Robespierre was making common cause with the poor, the destitute women of Paris – they would have his support, and he would have theirs.

The mob outside, however, were less jubilant – the night was still cold, and the rain still pouring. A possible inquiry would not keep them warm for the night (though some of the _poissardes_ had already bundled off to sleep on the benches.) Still, their rage had been deflected from the Assembly…

A herald then entered the Hall. "All petitioners are hereby to be admitted into the presence of the King!" Maillard and the twelve behind him followed the Master of Ceremonies, as Connor and Stephane navigated over to Maximilien Robespierre.

He was speaking with a few of the Breton Deputies when he noticed the two approaching him. Extricating himself from the debates, he trod over to them and said, "M. Kenway, it is good to see you again. How have you been faring these past few months?"

Connor said, "Well enough. Deputy Robespierre, this is my, ah… colleague, M. Chapheau."

Introductions made, hands shook, and nods exchanged, Robespierre said, "We are in the beginning of a great shift, my friends. The Bastille was the first expression of the General Will. Soon, the Nobility will be nudged in their decadent nests and shall acknowledge the plight of the People."

"They have our greatest sympathies. You have put great effort into the liberty of your nation." Connor said.

"Well, let's hope these good _madames_ would be so kind as to liberate themselves of all that mud, or His Majesty will be slightly chagrined by that trail they left," the Deputy said, wryly.

Out of the corner of his eye, Stephane noticed the Comte de Mirabeau had moved towards the exit and told Robespierre, "I can see you are a busy man, M. Robespierre, so we'll leave you to doing the Nation's work."

_"_Ah yes,_ merci. Bonne nuit, monsieurs!"_

* * *

Comte de Mirabeau eyed the two Novices in his apartments. "So, you've returned! And without Marat? My, he has certainly taken to inaction, as of late…"

"M. Marat has returned to Paris, in order to keep up with revolutionary events in his newspaper," Stephane explained.

"He can either make the Revolution, or he can report on it; it is damned difficult to do both, especially in so large a country." Settling into his cushioned velvet seat, the Comte asked, "Now, what brings you two here to me?"

"Is it not customary to report to the Grand Master of the Brotherhood?" asked Connor, wryly.

"Custom and tradition have taken a backseat as of late, if you hadn't noticed," Mirabeau retorted. "That's not necessarily a bad thing – change is good, if done incrementally. Well, since you're here, I've a task for you – protect the Bourbons."

"You want us to protect the King and Queen from the mob?"

"Yes, and their little munchkins too – and their guard, if you can," Mirabeau said. "We've a mob of seven thousand outside the palace walls, and they're all crying for heads. We don't need another debacle here like in Paris. Lafayette's not here yet? – of course not, useless dolt – so I'll need you two to help maintain order until he arrives."

"But… they're proven to have ties to the Lazarenes! They might be Templars, and if such is the cas-"

They were interrupted by a knock on the door. A servant entered and bowed his head, reporting, "Monsieur, the King has decided to accept the Declaration of the Rights of Man."

"Oh, has he now? Mirabeau sneered. "Certainly took him long enough to do it. Has he decided anything on the food shortages?"

"Only that the women will have all the bread they want."

"Now, the real question is, do they want bread, or blood?" The Comte stood and, dismissing his valet, turned to Connor and Stephane. "Damned fool. He's just revealed he's been hoarding flour. They will go for the Queen. We must get to her first. She may have an inkling as to what the Templars are planning. Do what you must, I don't care - _protect the Queen."_

* * *

Horns and bugles rang out through the night, rain still pouring from the heavens, as General Lafayette marched fifteen thousand National Guardsmen into the chateau of Versailles. He was immediately called before the National Assembly to explain his march to the Palace.

"I've just returned from an audience with Their Majesties, as well as the Comte de Provence and M. Necker," He and Connor were checking the National Guardsmen stationed around the gardens of Versailles, where it had once been the Queen's pleasure to pretend to be a commoner, and play at being a _poissard_. There was no time for such games now.

"And how did they receive your arrival?"

"Oh, a great deal better than the Assembly, I suppose. The King was rather pleasant, and M. Necker as well. The Queen… Well, she's never taken a great liking to me. Even at Court, she made a habit of mocking my skills as a courtier."

"Really?" Connor stopped and looked at Lafayette. "Does she… like anyone?"

He shrugged his shoulders slightly, opening the door before him and crossing the threshold. "Oh, her children, naturally… But few others, I think. She's in a strange country, remember. I'm not even sure she's fond of the King, really..."

They had now entered the famed and extensive Hall of Mirrors – had it been day, the pride of Louis XIV would have been glittering, light coruscating from the mirrors to glint on the low hanging chandeliers and sculpted frameworks, the bronzed statues and elaborate murals overhead.

What little light brightened the room was borne by the National Guardsmen, as well as the crucifix sconces adorning the wall. The rest of the room was shrouded in darkness. As they passed through the Hall, Connor could dimly make out the fine marble and gilded statues lining the Hall. Yet it was growing darker, still – the France of the Sun King was fading.

Connor caught a glimpse of himself and Lafayette before they left the room. The door closed shut behind them, and the Guardsmen saluted their General. "Venice used to own the monopoly on mirrors," he told Connor as they continued their patrol, "but the Sun King bribed some workers to finish his Hall. You can always count on Venetians to follow the glint of gold…"

They later checked on the Royal apartments. Their Majesties had retired for the night. Connor committed the location to memory. From the windows, drunken singing was heard on the night winds. "Ballads," Lafayette explained, "No doubt relating to court life. It's not all it's cracked up to be, really… Not as many orgies as I'd like!" He chuckled sardonically.

"They've already slain several nobles…" Connor said, warningly.

Lafayette released a long-suffering sigh. "These people, these demagogues… The People's Friend, the Lanterne Attorney – they know nothing of death, nor of war – and yet they literally clamor for blood to flow in the streets, for the good of the Nation."

"So long as they don't do it themselves, I suppose," Connor mused, half to himself. It was then he noticed that the General was swaying in his path, head drooping. "You have had a long day, Lafayette. I woke up late, myself. Go rest – I'll take over the watch."

"Are you sure? I don't want anything happening on your watch, now," said Lafayette, only partially teasing.

"You have my word – this will be the most uneventful night you could think of."

"Very well, then – I suppose I'll just nap at my post. Thank you, Connor." Yawning, he shook his head to clear it of sleep and trod off.

* * *

_Versailles, France  
__6 October, 1789_

At daybreak, Connor had found himself outside the Queen's apartments once again. Pistol shots cracked, welcoming the dawn. Connor, immediately on edge, pounded on the door. A Guard wearing a tricolor cockade opened the door and dragged Connor into the outer salon of the Royal apartments, quickly slamming the door behind them.

"You! You were on patrol with General Lafayette earlier, weren't you?" The Guard looked frantic, and he spat out his query, like a toxic venom, his face the mask of rage and desperation. Footsteps pounded throughout the palace, and clubs were dashed against the wall.

The Assassin nodded. "I was. He's given me command while he re-"

"Oh, he's gone to rest has he? Fat load of good it'll do him – he's left us here to defend against all of Paris! No doubt they've already woken General Morpheus from his slumber..."

Connor pushed past the guard and entered the Queen's room. She lay fast asleep in a canopied bed, cloaked in silk and shrouded in lace. He irritatedly shoved the curtain aside, grabbed hold of the Queen's shoulder and shook it rapidly. "Antoinette! Get up! Run! Leave as quickly as you can!"

Antoinette awoke to the sound of musket fire. Many womens' voices were heard through the walls, shouting, "Where is the whore?! We want the Austrian whore!" The shouting became a chant. "Whore whore whore! Where is the Austrian whore?!"

The Queen hurriedly put on the overskirt her ladies-in-waiting handed her, no time for the regular pomp and ceremony of the Court. As she pulled on a dressing gown, the salon door burst open, and the Gardes du Corps had flung themselves at the invading _poissardes_, who shrieked and clawed for the Queen, knives and maces making short work of her guardians.

She stood, paralyzed, transfixed by the mob. One _poissard_ managed to slip through the human barrier and rushed at the Queen, flailing a bloodied cleaver in the air. Connor grasped the tomahawk from his belt and twirled it in preparation, then stepped forward to intercept the woman, swinging the weapon into her chest. Blood spurted onto his coat, and onto the Queen herself.

He stood, listless, at the young, emaciated body at his feet. He looked up. Grasping at the Queen's sleeve, Antoinette's lady-in-waiting pulled her along, out the far door of the room and along a passage secreted behind a wardrobe. He followed them into the darkness.

They ran, blindly, the noise from her apartments loud in their ears. Eventually, they came to a thick door, barred shut and clasped in iron. Connor was tempted to knock it down, but a servant flung it open. Pushing him aside, Connor dragged the women into the room, before Louis. The door was barred, and a wardrobe placed against it.

His Majesty was dressed in a nightshirt, his face dark with stubble, sitting at a table with a plate of half-eaten food before the banging of the hidden door and the frantic breath of his wife as she approached, Louis said,"I did the wrong thing last night. I did the wrong thing." He shook his head and looked down, then back up at Connor. "What is your name, _monsieur?"_

"Connor." His answer was prompt and curt, as if it had been expected of him, and naught else. His lips were pursed, and his fists clenched. It was then that he noticed he still had his tomahawk out, blood and all. He subtly grabbed a curtain from the bed nearby and dried it off.

Louis glanced at the bloodied drapery then nodded at the Assassin, taking note of his tomahawk. "You have my thanks, _monsieur,_ for bringing my wife to safety. You are from America, are you not?"

"_Oui,_ I was placed in command while General Lafayette rested."

At this, the Queen's jaw clenched, and she looked out the window, where, in the courtyard below, the slaughter continued, as hundreds of people thronged and exulted, many smeared with blood on their faces and hands, others dragging the severed limbs of the King's Bodyguard, gruesome trophies of their savagery.

* * *

Lafayette arrived at one in the afternoon. He glanced at Connor and clasped his shoulder approvingly before moving on, doffing his tricorne. After bowing reverently to the King (now shaven and dressed in a suitable vest) he reported, "Some of the women were found – or shown – a secret staircase into the palace. This is either negligence or treachery."

He met the eyes of the barefoot woman steadily. There was a great weight in that gaze, a heaviness, as if he had tired of her altogether. Beneath the window, the mob surged, chanting for the King. Lafayette indicated the balcony. "It is necessary, Your Majesty." he said.

"Is it?" Asked Louis, tiredly. "They were only moments from slaying my wife. What would seeing me do?"

"They feel abandoned by you, your Majesty," Lafayette explained patiently. "They need to be reassured of your love and commitment to their well-being. They want you to go to Paris. The balcony, if you please."

Sighing, Louis stood and stepped forward to kiss his wife, then stooped and embraced their children. The King stepped out. The people shouted_, "À Paris!" _They stamped pikes into the ground, dust clouding the air with each thrust. They called for the Queen.

Inside the room, the General bowed and pointed his hand, palm upward, towards the balcony. She hesitated on the threshold. "Don't you hear what they are shouting?" she said. "They tried to kill me!"

"Yes. But either you go to them, or they come for you. Ladies first, Your Majesty…"

Face frozen, hands clenching her childrens', she stepped onto the balcony. They stood straight, heads high, and the din died slightly when they came out, but it rose again. "No children!" the mob called. The Queen dropped the Dauphin's hand; Connor reached out to it, and drew him and his sister back into the room, eyes ever on the Queen.

Antoinette stood alone. She looked horrid – wet, bedraggled, stuffed in a wrinkled yellow dressing gown, without rouge or powdered cheeks, graying hair uncombed and tangled around her bare shoulders. The rude chanting continued. "Shoot the Austrian bitch," and "Kill her, kill her!" Muskets were raised and leveled at Her Majesty, yet none were fired. Lafayette's face was a mix of emotions – fear, desperation, indignation – Impulsively, he stepped out beside her, and as the crowd howled, he took the Queen's hand, and, bowing low, he kissed her fingertips.

Immediately, the mood swung around._ "Vive Lafayette_!" Connor felt a tingle up his spine, wondering at their fickleness. And_ "Vive la reine," _someone called._ "Vive la reine!" _That cry had not been heard in a decade. Her fists unclenched, her mouth opened a little; the Queen leaned against Lafayette, also astounded at their transient mood. A Bodyguard stepped out to assist her, a tricolor cockade in his hat. The crowd cheered. The Queen returned to her children. The King would go to Paris.

* * *

Her Majesty had avoided the Marquis after his actions at the Palace, gliding past him into the carriage. He had only sighed, and fell into silence. On the road to Paris, Lafayette, Connor, and Stephane rode by the King's carriage, nary a word uttered between them. All about them marched the market women of Paris and the National Guard.

Connor and Stephane hung back, uttering to one another about Mirabeau – they had accomplished their mission. The Queen was safe. But what Mirabeau intended to do with her still remained a mystery. And, slinking along in the dusk, there were the anonymous many, the People: "Here we have them," they cried, "the baker, the baker's wife, and the baker's little apprentice!"

Connor trotted up to Lafayette and cantered alongside him for a great while. Finally, after a great while, he cleared his throat, and asked, falsely cheery, "You were very gallant to Her Majesty. Shall I keep this from Mdm. Lafayette?"

"Do what you will, Connor…" Lafayette's eyes were fixed north, on the road to Paris. The Assassin's attempt at a joke had done nothing to break down the walls Lafayette had constructed overnight.

_He likely blames himself for this,_ thought Connor. Lafayette had sworn to defend the Queen, and he had almost failed her. The Assassin followed the General's gaze to Paris: and there, bobbing grimly before the royal carriages, were the decapitated heads of the Royal Guard, grinning savagely at the fall of night.

* * *

7 October, 1789

_… The King, the Queen, the Dauphin, etc., arrived in the capital at about seven o'clock last night. It is indeed a festival for the good Parisians to possess their King. His presence will promptly change the face of things: the poor people will no longer die of hunger; but this benefit will soon vanish like a dream if we do not keep the Royal Family in our midst until the complete consecration of the Constitution. The People's Friend shares in the joy of his dear fellow citizens, but he will not give himself over to sleep._

~_ "L'Ami du people"_

* * *

_Vainqueur_: (French) "Victor," a term used to refer to anyone who had stormed the Bastille during the French Revolution.

_Bonne nuit_: (French) "Good night."

_Poissardes:_ (French) "Fishwives," a general term for the market women of Paris. I imagine they'd be pretty tough enemies, perhaps a mix of a Brute and a Militia.

_Vive la reine:_ (French) "Long live the Queen!"

* * *

_The Baker's Apprentice… That's it! Lafayette = Peeta!_

_Thomas Paine strikes me as a pretty jolly individual, from what his paintings show. A bit like the crazy uncle that's actually been a genius the whole time._

_George Washington was elected President in April 30, 1789, just before the first meeting of the Estates-General. The Constitution had been ratified a year before, replacing the weaker Articles of Confederation. (__As a side note, Lafayette named his only son Georges Washington de La Fayette in honor of the Commander-in-Chief.)_

_It appears as if I'm swinging Connor into a relationship with Anne Théroigne, but I've little experience in writing romance. And in romance. *obligatory forever alone joke* Ah well, we'll see where the bunnies trail…_

_Obligatory cameo of the Hall of Mirrors. I can't help it, they're just so purdy!_

_Again, with the heads! Well, we've got a break coming up – 1790 wasn't too exciting, adventure-wise. The establishment of the clubs, that fiasco with the Clergy… That's about it. More time for character development! I'm looking at you, Marat._


	5. The Jacobins

**firelordzuko:** What? No, no, some of my best friends are… Venetians… And you made me look up 'ingenue'. I hope you're happy!

**NinjaxSketcheartx:** Antoinette reminds you of Cersei? That was an incest joke, wasn't it? Well played… Yup, Anne's real. More commonly known as Théroigne de Mericourt (she'll get that title later). I just don't want Connor to be the 'eternal virgin,' as firelordzuko put it. And, as Lafayette would say, "Why not?" (Might not even use her for that role, anyway!)

* * *

**Chapter IV: The Jacobins**

**"None, but people of strong passion, are capable of rising to greatness."**  
**Honoré Gabriel Riqueti, comte de Mirabeau**

_Tuileries Palace  
Paris, France  
7:00 p.m., October 6, 1789_

Night had fallen on the long procession coursing its way through Paris, the autumn chill piercing the growing darkness. On the road to the Royal Family's new home in the Tuileries, on the Right Bank of the Seine, Stephane leaned over to Connor and asked, "Where were you last night? You should have seen the racket the Assembly put up when Lafayette met the King."

"I decided to let him rest and took over the watch. What happened?"

M. Chapheau looked askance at his mentor and said, "Duc d'Orléans was rather friendly with the protestors – poor thing couldn't outdo Mirabeau, though. They had a very interesting cry for the Duke… 'Here is our King! Long live King Orléans!' Some are saying that he even led the _poissardes_ to the Queen's bedroom, escorted by Swiss Guard! Pure fantasy, of course, but the devil's in the details."

"Louis-Philippe supports a constitutional monarchy, yes?" At Stephane's confirming nod, Connor said, "He may feel himself qualified to serve under such a system. Still, if you are insinuating that he had supported it somehow-"

"It could well mean that the Royalty itself is having a Revolution. Orléans controls the Palais-Royal – and from there, it'd have been easy to direct a mob to the Bastille, wouldn't it? That'd almost be an act of treason…"

Connor turned to respond – the idea that the entire Revolution was just some power play by a relative of the King seemed more than a little unsavory to him - but they had reached the outer iron gate of the Palace, and he was cut short. With a creak, the gates were opened and the carriages, coaches, and commoners flooded into the abandoned complex. The Tuileries Palace – named for the tile kilns that had once filled the site – had been abandoned since the reign of Louis XIV, when the Sun King had put all of his resources into opulent Versailles. Connected to the even older Louvre Palace by a riverside gallery, the Tuileries would – theoretically - present a more open monarchy to the public, as the Royal Family dismounted their carriages surrounded by National Guardsmen, Parisians, and severed heads.

Connor immediately noted new additions to the building's exterior, likely used by servants. Porter's lodges, barracks, domestic offices, and stables clung to the Tuileries as a moth to a dim flame. The servants were even now coming out, to great thoroughfare, when they heard there would again be tenants in the Palace. There would be no chance for privacy here. The National Guard formed ranks, saluting their King and Commander, as the mob shouted the grossest invectives and menaces. Louis simply shrugged it off and walked, decisively, through the palace doors, followed by Lafayette and Antoinette.

Connor dismounted and told Stephane, "Return to the Court of Miracles and wait for Mirabeau. Then we'll meet with you later on," before following Their Majesties into the barren, dusty palace. With each footstep, the sound echoed back to him. He noticed a great deal of luggage being brought into the central ballroom. Following the trail, he found Louis and Lafayette speaking to one another near the threshold. He caught the name of 'd'Orléans' before Lafayette noticed Connor.

"Ah, here is your _Aspirant,_ M. Lafayette..._"_ The King looked up from his conversation and nodded politely at the Assassin. He said, wearily, "We owe you a great debt, M. Connor, and if We can do anything to repay it, We shall grant it, if it be in Our power." This was Connor's first encounter with the infamous Majestic Plural, and would have had him scratching his head were it not for propriety's sake.

Thankfully, his confusion was cut short by the abrupt appearance of Her Majesty. _Surely he did not mean to include her in his thanks, as well…?_ "Louis, the garden is not nearly big enough!" the Queen declared petulantly as she swept into the outer ballroom, seeming to have forgotten her ordeals at Versailles, "We won't be able to fit a whole village in there. And the entire palace is completely empty! We simply _must_ have this place redone."

Louis only released a long-suffering sigh. "I will look into it,_ ma chérie_… But I do not think there will be much time for the old games in the gardens. We are placed in a rather delicate situation, and all of Paris is watching us now. If you wish to play at peasantry, I would be pleased to open the gates so you can see the city."

This, apparently, was the wrong thing to say. The Queen's face darkened for a moment, before she left the room, calling for her children. The Marquis de Lafayette's eyes followed Her Majesty as she retreated indignantly and saluted the King, asking, "Do you have any further orders for the Guard, Your Majesty?"

The King's temper – uncharacteristically – snapped. "Let every man put himself where he pleases!" As Lafayette hurriedly bowed, and grasped Connor's arm, dragging him from the room, Connor heard the King turn to an aide, sighing, and saying, "Fetch me a history of Charles the First from the library. I fear we may need history's guiding hand…"

It was all Connor could do to keep up with the frantic Marquis. As they hurried down the vacant hallways, the Assassin asked, "Why did he keep saying 'We'?"

Lafayette grimaced at the question. "Ah, that is the Majestic Plural, a cornerstone of the Divine Right of Kings… In theory, the King acts conjointly with the Almighty. Hence, he used 'We', to mean 'God and I…' It would have been far more acceptable during the reign of the Sun King, but now I fear even the Divine Right shall be put to a vote (though voting for one's rights does seem a tad silly, does it not?) Is it at all like that amongst the Iroquois, Connor?"

He shook his head. They were now outside, sidling past lines of workers bringing in more crates filled with clothes and china, and numerous pieces of furniture. "If you mean that our Chiefs rule by the will of _Raweni:yo_; no. They wear antlers, not crowns. They are put in power by our elder women, the Clan Mothers, who can remove them from their station if the Chiefs do not comply with their wishes or with the Great Law of Peace. This is called 'knocking off the horns,' as they put it. A rather direct way to go about it, but there you are - behind every great man is a great woman." By the bearance of the Queen, it was easy to see why the King was so equally inept.

* * *

_Théâtre du Palais-Royal  
Rue Saint-Honoré, Paris, France  
7:00 p.m., October 7, 1789_

It was only later, after he and Anne discussed the events at Versailles, and after she ordered him to come see some play with her, did Connor remember the King's despondent order to his valet. As they walked through the hall to their assigned seats, he asked her, "And who, exactly, was Charles the First?"

Anne rolled her eyes. "Oh, him? He's the 'British Martyr.' Got his head lopped off for crossing Parliament. I doubt we'd be so bold, here – everyone's too hopeful for some position in government. Anyway, after Charles was killed, the English put Oliver Cromwell in charge, and he went and banned everything fun. Sport, theater, alcohol, Christmas – _Christmas!"_

"You Europeans certainly put a great deal of weight on that particular festival."

Théroigne peered up at Connor in the velveted hallway. "Aren't you _half_ European? A _métis,_ no?"

"Well, I did not say it was my better half, did I? …So, what are we going to see, again?"

"Some work by a friend of mine. M. d'Eglantine."

Connor gave Anne a rather blank look, not blinking for several moments, and as they took their seats in the dark theater, he deadpanned, "… Isn't _eglantine_ a flower?"

The operetta, titled _Laure et Pétrarque, _whose main character, a 14th century Italian scholar named Petrarch, now freed from his vows of celibacy, waxed poetically about the beauty of a woman named Laura, and that after her refusal of him (since she was married) he mused on the oxymorons of love: pure joy and unrequited passion, peace and war, fear and hope, ice and fire, etc etc. There was little plot to the whole non-affair; indeed, not a single mishap befell the two besides having to endure Petrarch's warbling. After the curtain fell and the din of the orchestra died out, the workingmen and nobles filing out from between the rows, Connor turned slowly to Anne and said only, "… That was horrendous."

Standing up to exit the theater, the Assassins looped arms and walked into the crimson hall into the courtyard of the Palais-Royal. Echoing his remark from earlier, Anne retorted snarkily, "Well, I didn't say it would be one of his better plays, did I?"

"It was implied."

"Implications are deceitful…"

A silence fell heavily upon them. At some point, Connor began to hum a song from the operetta, which he felt would be relevant in the coming months (and was rather catchy, in d'Eglantine's defense):

_Il pleut, il pleut bergère,  
Presse tes blancs moutons,  
Allons sous ma chaumi-_

"I had not taken you for a musical man, Connor," said Anne, smiling.

"It was common practice in my village back home in Kanatahséton – of course, it was more for ritual, rather than entertainment. Or, maybe it was for both…" They then fell into that horrid pitfall that all acquaintances must, at some point, undergo: sharing life stories. "I was born there in 1756, I think… My Clan Mother gave me a Piece of Eden… I met a strange spirit – she directed me to become an Assassin. At some point I made Lafayette's acquaintance… And here I am."

"I was born in the Austrian Netherlands, myself. Marcourt, 1762. I was raised in the convent of Robermont – my aunt had taken me there to learn dress-making when I turned five years old." She barked out a laugh, sarcastically noting, "I only ever really took the dress-making to heart, honestly. Seven years ago, I was recruited as Courtesan-Assassin in London. I'm no longer in the business, of course-" It was then that she noted Connor's eye glinting mischievously, and she declared, "-and NO, I did not give out discounts to fellow Assassins!"

"That is a shame." Connor's lips twitched ever so slightly. "I do feel that would be a good business plan." To himself, he mused on Franklin's bit of advice before his departure – that the best partner would be an elder one. However, Anne was some seven years his junior. Still, she did have a sort of charisma about her – it was probably her eloquence. She was also quick-witted, possessed of a fiery temper, and – while he could not call her beautiful, strictly speaking – she was strikingly handsome, looking peculiarly dashing in her plumed hat and riding jerkin. She even absconded with a sword in public.

"Are you coming or not?" Nor, apparently, was she the most patient of people.

* * *

_Dominican Convent  
Rue Saint-Honoré, Paris, France  
October 18, 1789_

The Assembly followed the King to Paris within two weeks, and took up temporary lodgings in the archbishop's palace, right next to Notre Dame de Paris. Church bells signaled the call to prayer, as well as the call to legislate (in the King's name, of course.)

Club Benthorn, founded by the Breton Deputies of the National Assembly, had rented out the refectory of an empty convent on the Rue Saint-Honoré, once occupied by the Dominican Order. It was a small building, very homely, with a speaker's lectern affixed on a raised dais in a corner of the room, currently occupied by the Abbé Sieyès, protesting those cancelled tithes of his. Alas, friend to the poor, yet a clergyman at heart!

The Breton Club, having expanded membership from only deputies to others besides, even foreigners, had recently renamed itself the Society of the Friends of the Constitution. At a glance, the Constitution had already made very eminent Friends: Mirabeau, of course; the Abbé Sieyès; _L'Ami de Noirs,_ Jacques Brissot; Deputy Pétion; a few officers from the War in America – even the teenage son of d'Orléans, Louis-Philippe III, was seen jostling amidst the throng. They were all mostly deputies and journalists and men of affairs who debated there like a second Assembly.

Then, there was Robespierre.

Whenever Connor looked at Robespierre, he was immediately reminded of a particularly clever bobcat from the Frontier (but that's another saga entirely.) His slanted eyes were a cold grey, and surveyed the room curiously, his nimble frame weaving to and fro amongst the crowd. He nodded at Connor as he entered the refectory, and uttered a greeting as the Assassin sidled up to him. "You were mentioned," began Connor, "In the _Courier Francais._"

"They mention a lot of things. You'll have to be more specific, _Monsieur."_

"Well, ah... they did get your name right. None of that 'Robertspiere' silliness, as usual."

"Ah, that is all I have ever wanted, truly." Robespierre's lips twitched, in his usual muted display of amusement.

"They also commended you as 'one who often made very positive contributions to these discussions without getting worked up or overheated.' I have often wondered, how do you keep your head cool, with the Torch of Provence about?"

Maximilien's gave another of his half-smiles. "Well, I do have a thinner wig than he, I suppose…"

Sieyès_'s _voice rose above the din._ "They wish to be free, but they do not know how to be just! _It is obvious to all that the First Estate cannot continue as a separate privileged order, now that the nation had asserted its inviolable right to sovereignty! But, this does not mean that its property, the tithes of our citizens, can be appropriated illegally. Besides which, we, unlike the Nobility, are not simply a parasitical elite: we provide crucial services in areas of health and education and caring for the poor,_ along with the pomp and ceremony surrounding it._ From this perspective, the Catholic Church is a branch of public administration that will need to be incorporated into the Constitution!"

This brought torrents of abuse on the Abbé's head. Could the radical theorist of 1789 have turned reactionary overnight? It was well known that the dîme was supposed to support local parishes, but they had been sent to distant monks and bishops, further impoverishing the Nation. Surely Sieyès was not supporting this outrageous arrangement!

"He does have a point," murmured Robespierre to Connor, reflectively. "Regarding the services of the Church, not the tithes, obviously. Now, if we are to accept his theory – that the Church is a branch of the State – could not the State then select its members? I am not sure that they would care for such a thing, but there you are."

Connor was not sure how the clergy would react to being appointed by the Assembly, nor did he think himself informed enough to comment. He simply asked, "So, M. Maximilien, where are you staying again?"

"30 rue Saintonge, in the Marais Quarter," rattled off the sallow deputy. "The second floor. A good price, rather cheap. It's a mile or two from the Assembly, so getting to work is rather a hassle… The congestion doesn't help."

"Really? I've met few Parisians that lived on the second floor..."

Robespierre gazed at Connor for a long moment, his lips, again, twitching, his lenses flashing in the light as he politely nodded to the Assassin. "Perhaps you should broaden your social circle, then. You just have to look higher, is all. And, one rarely has to deal with noisy neigh-"

"Excuse me, M. Robespierre?" Another man, perhaps in his middle ages, had extricated himself from the crowd. He was tall and angular, fine features dominated by a pair of cold blue eyes. "If I could have a moment of your time…"

"Ah, M. Laclos, of course. It has been a pleasure, as always, Connor." Nodding courteously to the Assassin, the deputy turned, coat tails swishing through the air, as he met the eyes of the man who had addressed him. "I suppose you'll be wanting to chat outside, then…?"

Nodding, the newcomer paused as Maximilien left the refectory's portal, following after him rather energetically. Connor, suspicion aroused, laid his back against the wall, glancing out the door to the pair weaving in and out of the Parisian crowd. Mind determined, he slinked out of the Jacobins and followed them, stopping every now and then to meld in with a group of rough, rather uncouth men, their clothing patched and dusty, staring up at the Jacobin club and shaking their heads dismissively. They did not wear the knee-britches of the aristocracy; only trousers. They could not afford to become the Constitution's Friends, nor would they have been very welcome among the bourgeoisie who gathered in the refectory.

Finally, after a few more blocks down the road, Connor finally got wind of the conversation between the two. Robespierre was gesticulating somewhat forcefully to get his point across. "-ould I receive money from the Duke? I do him no services, and I do not intend to. He is already reasonably well off, being a member of the Royal Family – do any of _les miserables _claim any such distinct lineage? No – they cannot even claim a full meal every night. Spare me your haggling. I do not, will not, serve d'Orléans – I serve the People."

The man, Laclos – who appeared to be a secretary for the noble in question – argued, "Ah, but so does the Duke! He's always been a grand proponent of the poor, and a supporter of the working class. Take your friend Camille, for exa-"

As the pair continued walking down the road, they became less audible. Swearing quietly to himself, Connor followed, and, taking note of a marching group of French Guardsmen, all of them clad in white, the color of the House of Bourbon, he threw back his hood, snatched a tricorne off a pedestrian, and plopped it onto his own head, merging with the Guardsmen. They made little note of Connor – probably because his uniform nearly matched their own, but more likely because they were busy shoving pantalooned men off the street, making way for a carriage, likely carrying another Jacobin. Soon, however, the Assassin's ears caught noted Robespierre's voice up ahead. He slipped out of the battalion and continued to follow them, now hiding behind conveniently placed barrels.

Robespierre conveniently took off where Laclos had left off earlier. "Don't talk to me about Camille," he snapped coldly. Obviously, his former classmate's scruples about receiving political donations were far lower than Maximilien's himself. His lips pursed, and his cold grey eyes jousted with Laclos' blue ones, spectacles glinting ominously.

"Fair enough. I can see you are well off, in any case – but you are not very prominent, are you? Some middle-class, anonymous lawyer from Arras won't be able to garner-"

"And you propose to jump me up through the rungs, clinging to the Duke's coattails? Is that your grand vision of my rise to power?" Robespierre snorted. "Besides, what would I do with this newly-granted position you envisage? Help along more degenerate wretches up the ladder, no doubt. No, I will not accept money, nor power, from the likes of you, nor your benefactors."

"Well, damn it, man! Look, how about a fair match? You're an eligible young bachelor, surely some young lady has caught your eye, and you would need to provi-"

Once again, Robespierre brought forth the image of a Great Cat, eyes glinting at his prey's weakness, and now he pounced, going straight for the jugular. "If I were to entertain such thoughts, I would hardly need help from the aristocracy to court such a lady. And no, before you ask, I am not inclined in _that_ way, either - I altogether value virtue and fraternity far more than lust. You have made three mistakes, _Monsieur_ – I am not wanting in money, power, or love. Not while this Nation suffers so greatly. If you had really wanted to bribe me, you should have brought some sugar with you – as it is, you've entirely turned me off the idea of any partnership with His _Serene_ Highness. Perhaps you should slink off to join him in London - I hear the politicians there would be more inclined to hear you out. Now, _good day."_

With a flourish, Robespierre turned the other way, towards the Jacobin Club. Laclos stood alone for a few moments, gazing at nothing in particular, before sighing frustratedly and turning to a street that would lead back to the Palais-Royal. Before he went down that way, however, his head turned, suddenly, seeing a flash of white. Frowning, he shook his head, and went on his way, already thinking up a despondent report to London.

* * *

_Mirabeau's Quarters  
Île de la Cité, Paris, France  
October 18, 1789_

"Robespierre said that d'Orléans is in London?"

"Yes, we have your friend Lafayette to thank for that – the only influence the Duke has now is through his lackey, it seems. So, Laclos is trying to recruit M. Robespierre? Poor man's going to starve…" Mirabeau mused to himself, fiddling with his quill. At his side, Theroigne sat on his desk – and some rather important-looking documents – cleaning dirt from her nails with her favorite poignard. Connor stood before the pair, having given his report of the events that transpired after the Jacobin meeting. "I do not doubt that the Candle would be a formidable Piece in d'Orléans' Game with the King – but he is, as always, that one unobtainable Piece, presented only to taunt him. No, I fear Robespierre is quite incorruptible. The Duke would be better served looking for oth-"

Connor interrupted. "M. Laclos did mention his friend, Camille…"

"Ah yes, the Lanterne Attorney!" Smirking, Mirabeau shuffled some papers about on his desk, looking for some certain aged text. "He's a more compliant Piece, but one just as liable to backfire. He takes donations from a great deal of people, mostly the nobility… One minute, he holds out his hand to them, begging for succor - and the next thing they know, he's shouting at the Mob to string them from the lamppost! Very odd and conflicting profession, being a Republican, eh?" The Comte shrugged, still firm as ever in his monarchist tendencies, whilst Anne glanced sharply at him.

Mirabeau, however, seemed more interested in Robespierre's residence than the moral failings of his friends. "Now, you said he's living in le Marais? Well, isn't that a coincidence…?"

"How so?"

Flipping her hair across her shoulder, Anne sheathed her poignard and surveyed her work. Rolling her eyes in futility, she answered, "Up until the last century, The Marsh was the greatest home of the Nobility. Now they've more or less moved to _La Rive Gauche,_ in the Faubourg Saint-Germain. And-"

"'In 1240, the Order of the Temple built its fortified church just outside Paris's walls, in the northern marsh.'" Mirabeau had apparently found that document he had been searching so vehemently for, and had now read the paragraph, very theatrically and triumphantly. He set it down with the other stacks and tutted to himself, saying, "Very unwise move for our Little Candle, wouldn't you say? Still, the church itself has been empty for centuries… And the Marais is more of a Jewish community, nowadays."

Anne's eyes glinted. "Ah… The Sicarii. I had nearly forgotten…"

The name sounded Latin to Connor. "Who are they?"

"Our little _pet name_ for our Jewish Brothers." Smiling grimly, Mirabeau elaborated, "It means "dagger-men" in Latin. The Jews founded the Levantine Assassins during the leadership of Judge Ehud … or was it Jael?" At Anne's unconfirming shrug, he continued, "They invented the _sica_ – the Hidden Blade. During the Jewish Rebellion, the Sicarii allied with the Zealots. They tried to drive the Templars from Judea – Romans, Herodians, _aristos, _all that lot. After Jerusalem fell, and the Temple was destroyed, they swore vengeance on Rome and scattered throughout the Empire, including here in Paris."

Anne asked Mirabeau, "Didn't they take over that Templar church…?"

"So they did, and they have done a great job renovating the place! There used to be torture racks all along the dormitories! There's some there still, but not as much, mind you…"

"Is Robespierre aware of his… new neighbors' activities?"

"Possibly… But I do not think he would participate in them. He's far too _noble_ for such things." After his requisite sneer, the Comte stood and said, "I'll send word to the Sicarii. This would be a ripe time for the Templars to try and regain their old church. And I'll ask them to keep an eye on Robespierre - if anyone is in danger from the Templars, it would be our Candle of Artois."

After Mirabeau had left, Connor turned to Anne and asked, "Do you think the Sicarii will place a guard on Robespierre?"

"If Mirabeau deems it necessary, and orders them to. Jewish or not, they're still Assassins, and they are bound by the Creed. The only reason they're given any degree of autonomy are those mad 'separation laws' of theirs. Remember, these are the descendants of the Zealots – they only ally with us poor Gentiles to destroy the Templars."

"I had not thought that Assassins would be very religious, given… The Ones Who Came Before."

"The relics prove their existence – for most, that discredits all religion, but for some, those of more fierce…" here she paused, only just stopping herself from saying _delusions,_ "…dispositions, their faith is only confirmed by the Pieces of Eden."

"I know little of the Jews. Is their faith related to Christians'?"

"Yes – aside from this," here she pulled out a long band pierced by wooden beards, worn by years of use. From the bottom, there dangled a silver crucifix, the human figure's face distorted in agony. "We are basically the same, I would think. Anyway, Jews do not accept Christ as their Messiah. That's about it, really." She tucked away the rosary and shrugged. "Little differences, but large divides, at least outside of the Brotherhood. And, like all divisions, the Templars never let them go to waste."

* * *

_Cour de Miracles  
Rue Reaumur, Paris, France  
8 November, 1789_

The sun was just beginning to set in the west, descending behind the Tuileries Palace, as Connor returned to the Court of Miracles just to the northeast. The peddlers and beggars had returned from their day's work, their enfeeblements and ailments once again disappearing into the night as they set about their eternal search for food and drink. The Assassin surveyed the poor masses from his spot leaning onto the porch of the Assassin's Headquarters before a deep, resonant voice croaked at him from behind, though sounding shakier, perhaps from a slight cough.

"I've not seen you since Versailles, Connor… Just how have you been getting on, eh? Riqueti been treating you right, I hope?"

Assuming it was another resident of the Court of Miracles, who had yet to shed his infirmities for the night, Connor whirled, and his eyes widened at the sight before him in the darkened alley. The Assassin's head was wrapped in a white, soaked handkerchief. His face and hairline had erupted into a bright red rash and had become littered with sores and boils, blisters oozing a watery pus. His eyes kept twitching, and he forced his hands at his side – he fiddled with a bit of cloth he had brought with him, twisting and tugging the strip of linen. The man was obviously refraining from scratching the afflicted areas. The man walked towards him slowly, smiling (or grimacing, rather) in welcome.

Connor blinked at him slowly, before he recognized the deep eye sockets and the rather flat nose. He opened, then closed his mouth, then opened it again, asking, "Dr. Marat… What happened? You look horrid…"

"I will _thank_ you for the compliment, Connor, and assume that you have been doing far better than I these past few weeks. Now, to answer your question… Well, the regime doesn't care for the truth - I was imprisoned for about a month, and then returned to printing '_L'Ami du people.'_ It certainly hasn't been a stable press – I've had to hide in cellars and sewers, where I caught this disease." He pointed at the inflamed red skin on his temple, watery discharge glistening in the dusky torchlight.

"I am… sorry…?"

"Oh for God's sake, don't speak so loud!" The doctor winced and rubbed his temples, rolling his eyes in agony. "I've been plagued by migraines for weeks now. I don't need you yelling into my eardrums, _Novice!"_

The Assassin eyed the doctor's dark hairline suspiciously. "What did you… catch, exactly?"

"I've no idea what disease it is, really. I'd be more interested in studying it if I weren't busy with my paper, and with restraining from scratching myself." Marat glared at the cloth he was twisting violently in his hands, as if it were its fault he was so tormented. "So far, it only appears to be affecting my extensor surfaces – the 'flexy bits.' You know, elbows, knees, buttocks, groi-"

Connor could already tell where this was going, so he hurriedly interrupted Marat by saying, _"Well, _it is good to have you back, in any case. I've not read _'L'Ami'_ as much as I would like, but I am sure you're doing good reporting in any case." After being answered with a derisive snort, he asked, "So, what do you think we should do about the Bourbons? They've been kept just southwest of us for a month or two now. Does Mirabeau have any plans?"

"If he does, he keeps them to himself. Wise, I guess, for someone used to decadent court life, but secrecy is never productive between _Brothers..._ If you aske me, we ought to keep the King and his family within the Tuileries until the Constitution comes into effect – otherwise, they will regain their old powers, and it will be civil war without end… And don't think to be entirely ignorant of Riqueti, nor his motives. Say what you will, he is a blooded aristocrat, through and through."

* * *

_Salle du Manège, Paris, France  
10 November, 1789_

One look at the Riding School, and Mirabeau announced, "Too small!"

The Assembly had now vacated its temporary residence in the palace near Notre Dame, and moved to an indoor riding school, just to the west from the Tuileries Palace, situated along the northern end of the Gardens thereof. Built during the early reign of the child-king Louis XV, it had been commissioned by his regent, Phillip II d'Orléans. As a former riding track, it was far longer than it needed be – it was cramped lengthwise, and had poor acoustics under its high vaults. The Hall was dim, very poorly lit, and divided by a great gangway, cleaving the deputies in half. Six tiers of benches were being mapped out to permit space for about thirteen-hundred deputies. One side of the room was broken by the president's seat and the secretaries' table; the other by the speaker's rostrum.

The public galleries, clinging to the high vaults, were similarly cramped, able to hold only three hundred spectators. Aside from all this, the room was very stuffy, and the stench of equine discharges permeated the air. Connor, surveying the long room with the Comte and Stephane Chapheau, confessed, "It _is_ rather cold," though rather begrudgingly (as he had endured far worse beforehand,) "and quite stuffy. Perhaps some windows, _Monsieur…?"_

Stephane beamed and bowed, half jokingly, to Mirabeau. "Don't worry, _Monsieur le Comte,_ I shall be of the greatest assistance, if we need a few holes knocked out of th-"

"No you won't." Smiling wickedly, Mirabeau turned briskly to Stephane and said, "That won't be necessary – I've a task for you. A few of the Western nobles have arrived in our fair city. Yipping at their heels is one of your distant kin – goes by the Chapeau name, I believe? He's come all the way from Poitou; the least you could do is welcome him to Paris."

The Assassin nodded, rather dumbly. Stephane had already visited the Chapeau family a few years back (his branch had added an extra 'h' in Quebec, for whatever reason) that served as vassals to the conservative nobility in the West, religiously devoted to the House of Bourbon. Stephane's homecoming had not been entirely well-received, given his Revolutionary tendencies. In any case, it was doubtful that Mirabeau had any great care for Stephane's familial ties. "What, exactly, do you want me to say to them?"

"I want you to go to your kinsman, and see if you can gain an audience with his masters. Gain an insight to these Provincials. The Revolution, already, is not universally loved. I have no doubt that a… familiar name might ease their worries, wouldn't you say?" Giving the barkeep one last, lingering look, he nodded dismissively, and Stephane (rigidly) returned the gesture, walking briskly out of the room, his footsteps echoing ominously in the abandoned hall. Turning back to Connor, the Comte said, "You are right, of course. Perhaps a stove in the middle of the floor? Mind you, I'm not sure about those windows – this place doesn't look stable enough fo-"

"If I may be of assistance, M. Mirabeau," announced the good Deputy, Dr. Guillotin, as he entered the _Manège_ by a side door. "Ventilation will be a rather simple matter, I think. If you want a professional opinion, I would think some herbs… maybe vinegar should be sprinkled, twice daily, if possible."

"As always, you have come to our rescue, Guillotin," said the Comte drily, "and we must thank you whole-heartedly for your apt prescription. It had better get rid of the smell of horse shit, for all our sakes…" From that point forward, the Assembly had become irreversibly tied to the building it occupied – the Legislative body of the French Nation was now called nothing but 'The Riding School.'

* * *

_Aspirant: _(French) A low military ranking.

_Raweni:yo:_ (Algonquian) "Good ruler," used to refer to the Algonquian Creator God, the Great Spirit/Mystery. They had a greater pantheon, of course, but much of their mythos has been lost.

_Métis: _(French) A term used to describe a person of European and Native American descent. The French equivalent of a _mestizo._

_Il pleut bergère:_ (French) "It's raining, Sheperdess." A song from d'Eglantine's _Laure et Pétrarque_. Refers to Queen Antoinette, and her hobby of playing a sheperdess at Versailles – the rain symbolizes the French Revolution.

_Refectory: _(English) A dining room... Apparently.

_L'Ami de Noirs:_ (French) "The Friend of the Blacks," a title I've given to Jacques Brissot, an early abolitionist. He created the abolitionist group _L'Amis des Noirs_.  
_  
La Rive Gauche:_ (French) "The Left Bank" (referring to Paris south of the River Seine.)

* * *

_Probably should've just called this chapter "The Orléanists." Foreshadowing!_

_I HATE eavesdropping. I HATE IT. Can't they just chat by the cafe like they used to? Oh well, that's mobility for ya... And the idea of an Assassin just blending in with white-coated Guardsmen was too good to pass up. I'm gonna miss the Bourbons..._

_You know, for all of the places Assassin's Creed has set forth before us, not one game has brought to light the plight of the Jews, either in the Holy Land or the Diaspora in Europe. In fact, Constantinople would've been a great place to host them in _"Revelations,"_ with so many Sephardic Jews exiled there from Templar Spain. Well, let it never be said that they were completely helpless (though there was certainly no well-poisoning…) _Thank _you, TVTropes, for compelling me to add them onto this already confused jumble!_

_It has been suggested that Marat suffered from dermatitis herpetiformis, first described in 1884. (No relation or causation with herpes.) If that's the case, he probably should have stopped eating gluten, but that particular connection was only made in 1967. Poor Marat… (I will never say those words again!)_

_This fic is centered on the Reign of Terror; however, its grasp extended far beyond the walls of Paris. Plans for Stephane Chapheau include more than a few assassinations to put under his own belt…_


	6. Ci-Devants

**firelordzuko:** Look, all I'm sayin' is, the genes gotta pass at some point.  
**Guest:** Well, pirates have their appeal, I suppose, but they're not that influential, historically speaking…

**Chapter V: Ci-Devants**

**_"It is difficult to free fools from the chains they revere."  
_****_~ Voltaire_**

* * *

_Rue Vivienne  
Paris, France  
10 November, 1789 _

The apartments of Stephane's relative Jacques Chapeau were on the second floor of a tall building on the rue Vivienne; his masters (a kind word for it) resided on the ground level. It seemed plain enough from the outside – very typical of visiting Provincial elites. After hesitating on the threshold, the day darkening about him, he knocked on the door. It swung open to reveal a younger man, with finer clothes and a bleached cravat. All that was missing was the powdered wig, and he'd be a true bourgeois. The man blinked, then said, "Bonsoir, Stephane. I take it this is not a leisure call?"

"Afraid not, Jacques, no," said Stephane. "I've come here to speak with your… employers."

"MM. de Charette and de la Rochejaquelein are absent for the evening; however, M. de Lescure is still here. Please, come in!" Jacques stepped aside to admit Stephane, and led him down a hallway into a nearly empty parlor. A man was sitting next to the immaculate fireplace. He looked up from a book to the visitor as Jacques said, "Stephane, this is M. Louis, the Marquis de Lescure." M. de Lescure was tall, well-dressed nobleman. He had a rather angular nose, framed by dark hair. His legs were very long and he easily towered over the two as he rose to greet them. The nobleman held out his hand to Stephane, who took it, begrudgingly.

_"Bienvenue,_ M. Chapheau. Now, to what do we owe the pleasure?"

The barkeep sat down across from de Lescure, Jacques still standing by the doorway. "My employer hoped to reassure the western nobles on the virtues of the Revolution. No doubt you are concerned about Their Majesties' well-being, especially after the October Days –"

"As any honest and loyal Frenchman should," interjected Jacques. "The King and Queen are the representatives of our Nation – any threat to their well-being is a direct threat to the whole of France! One can judge a tree by its fruit, says Christ the King – yet the Fruit of the Tree of Liberty have, thus far, proven sour for France."

"A nice metaphor, and well thought out, Jacques – but as it stands, the Bourbons can no longer exercise absolute power – nor should they. France must no longer be enslaved to the will of despots and tyrants!"

Jacques smiled indulgently, looking as if he had prepared for such an argument the night before. "As always, _mon ami_ Stephane, you confuse absolute power with arbitrary power. Under an absolute monarchy, everyone has absolute power over all that is legitimately their own. Just as the King cannot simply take life, limb or property from his bannermen or subjects by his leave - because they have absolute right to it - neither can his subjects, at their whim, take the Crown or royal authority from the King."

"And how would you classify this 'arbitrary power,' Jacques?"

"As the Bishop Bossuet of Meaux put it: the subjects of an arbitrary King are born slaves, and their belongings are his, and there is no law but his will. It is clear that Louis does not wield arbitrary power – Frenchmen are not born slaves, they can own property and the King is bound by the rule of Law. It is for this reason that we in the Vendée support His Most Christian Majesty, Louis the Sixteenth of His Name; and it is for this reason that we have come to Paris."

"You quote a clergyman in service to the tyrant, Louis XIV. How did the King receive his Crown? Did God hand it to him on a silver platter? Or was it taken, from the ignorant wishes of the People, to rule over them so they could continue with their own daily lives? Let no man now claim ignorance as an excuse – the Age of Reason has dawned!"

It was at this point the Marquis de Lescure spoke up by the fireplace. Legs still stretched before him, he said, "The monarchy fulfils a role which an elected official never can. It formally limits the politicians' thirst for power because, with it, the supreme office of the state is occupied once and for all."

"Yes, of course – thirst for power and designs on the supreme executive office belong solely to the Nobility! I know you have not been in this city long, M. de Lescure, but you may have heard some of the recent rumors at the Palais-Royal – that the Duc d'Orleans has designs on the throne, that he fermented the Fall of the Bastille, and the March on Versailles – no, do not preach to me about the permanency of the royal dynasty! The high lords can play their Game of Thrones, and we subjects are but petty pieces in your grand jousts. God made the Crown, you say – yet Man has removed it before, easily enough."

"And always to the detriment of society. Beware your treasonous tongue, _mon ami!_ You know of Oliver Cromwell, yes? A republican, through and through. Yet he proved more tyrannical than the Charles the Martyr – he wielded arbitrary power, not as a King, but as a Conqueror."

"Not to say anything of plaguing us with those pitiful Stuarts…" grumbled Jacques by the corner.

"Be that as it may," began Stephane, but he was cut off by a sharp knock at the door. De Lescure sighed and got up, walking swiftly into the hallway, leaving the Chapeaus in an uncomfortable silence. Presently, however, de Lescure returned with a slightly shorter man – though to Stephane, he appeared more like a boy. Jacques inclined his head in respect to the new nobleman – Stephane, however, remained seated, duly crossing his right leg over his left, folding his arms defensively. Lescure turned to the newcomer and told Stephane, "M. Stephane, this is my cousin Henri, the Comte de la Rochejaquelein."

The youth immediately struck Stephane as being very foppish – his long, wavy hair was covered by a black silk top hat, a new design that had not quite caught up with the fashion of the aristos. Larochejaquelein, though not yet twenty, appeared very prepossessing for his young age. He was tall and athletic, if the rapier at his side were any indication. Though he had still seemed rather slim, due to his youth, he no doubt would appear rather commanding as a fledged adult. He appeared full energy, as was common amongst his kind; his eyes were bright, and of a clear blue color; his hair was a light, sandy color, and fell to his shoulders.

"I am pleased to make your acquaintance, M. Larochejaquelein," said the barkeep, politely inclining his head, though still somewhat in reserve.

"And I, you. Lescure tells me you are related to our Jacques?" Although his tone spoke of fondness and familiarity between master and servant, Stephane could still root out his aristocratic assumptions – that his relative belonged to them, as was their right as Nobility. "We are honored to host a cousin of our most valiant valet! I'm afraid you just missed M. de Charette – he should be along shortly, if you wish to speak with him. He's our little ringleader here – though don't tell Lescure that!" He received a teasing cuff from his elder cousin.

Stephane, however, knew a lost cause when he saw one. It would be better to retreat for the moment, and end that farcical charade. He stood and headed for the door to the parlor, saying. "Oh, we were just having a friendly debate. Ah,politics! Such things are the norm, nowadays. Unfortunately, I must report to my employer. He won't be too happy, but don't take it personally – he's always like that. _Bonne nuit, mes amis!"_

* * *

_Hôtel de Lafayette, 183 rue de Bourbon  
Paris, France  
17 March, 1790_

_"Our revolution is getting on as well as it can with a nation that has attained liberty at once, and is still liable to mistake licentiousness for freedom…_

_"Give me leave, my dear General, to present you with a picture of the Bastille, just as it looked a few days after I had ordered its demolition, with the main key of this fortress of despotism. It is a tribute, which I owe as a son to my adopted father, as an aide-de-camp to my general, as a missionary of liberty to its patriarch." ~ Lafayette, 17 March 1790, Paris_

"Well, that ought to do it." Lafayette sat at a desk in his Parisian apartments, with Thomas Paine and Connor standing before him. The desk was cluttered with missives and orders pertaining to the National Guard. He grabbed an envelope from the side and scribbled the relevant addresses onto it, from Paris to Philadelphia. That done, he folded the letter, put it inside the missive, and sealed it with the sigil of House Lafayette – a diagonal bend, within a border scattered with bells. The marquis turned to Paine. "You are going back to America for a while, _non?_ If you could do me a small favor while at Philadelphia… I can be sure of your confidence, M. Paine?"

"Of course."

"Take this to President Washington for me, would you?" Lafayette slid a small iron key across the desk to Paine. The handle was without holes, its shaft without ruts. The blade bore an indented cross, two of its branches forming circles. Connor had seen that key before, dangling from an iron cane…

"That is the key to the Bastille!"

Lafayette nodded. "Sgt. Hulin gave this to me after de Launay… Well, I'd like M. Washington to know how much the American Revolution has inspired us here at home."

"I would be happy to present it to Mr. Washington." Paine reached out and peered at it skeptically. "Although… You're sure he won't take it as an insult? Giving him the 'Key to Despotism'? Wars have been started for less, _Monsieur!"_

"Well, if he does misconstrue my meaning, I can always blame you, M. Paine!"

* * *

_30 rue Saintonge, Marais Quarter  
Paris, France  
1 April, 1790_

On the rue Saintonge, in le Marais, just north of the ruined Bastille, Maximilien Robespierre had made his temporary abode. The building was much like he described it – a plain, three-storied building on the corner, with little to no distinguishing figures beside its utter blandness. The light was off on the second floor – Robespierre must still be at the Assembly. Connor cursed his luck, then turned to return to the Cour de Miracles, when he spotted a rather curious odd – yet somehow, familiar – figure across the street, not far from where he stood. Slowly, he walked over to the person, testing them for a reaction.

An old woman stood by the corner, her shriveled hand grasping a long staff, no doubt to aid her in walking the rough streets of Paris. She wore a long, white woolen shawl that covered her back and head. Its four corners lined with knotted fringes, and long blue stripes transversed the shawl. On the woman's hood was a navy blue sigil, composed of one regular Assassin's symbol, and another was inverted to form a star with the other. She looked down from the building and to Connor, nodding in respect.

"_Laa shay'a waqi'un moutlaq…" said Connor, hopefully._

_"Hkhl motr,"_ answered the old woman, smiling amusedly, as if at a private joke that Connor would likely never get. "You are the Brother from the New World? Mirabeau told us you would be coming by to visit. Please, walk with me, young man - we can speak more plainly at headquarters." She held out her hand and Connor offered her his arm, the wrinkled limb slipping through his own. It was then that the Assassin noted a long series of black leather bands striping across her arm, holding in place against her elbow a small leather box. She winked at him conspiratorily and said only, "You may call me Adiya Berr. It'll be a little while before we arrive at the Church, so I suppose we might as well chat about the goings on of things. Dismembered castles, crazed fishwives – more crazed than usual, mind – ah, these have been some very exciting months, haven't they? I almost feel young again… Now, whom do I have the honor of addressing?"

"Ratonhnhaké:ton, but you may call me Connor if you like."

"That is a lovely sounding name – I won't shame it by trying to pronounce it. Very well, you shall be Connor to us. How dreadfully dull…"

"Mirabeau sent me, to see if the Sicarii would set a watch on Robespierre... just to ensure his protection. He has had some rather pushy... petitioners, as of late. I would be greatful if your Order could assis in this matter. Now, why did they send you, exactly?"

She stopped in the middle of the road and looked him square in the eye, lips still twitching in amusement. "Before we continue, you should know we have our own name – not one foisted on us by the Templars of Rome. We call ourselves _Dam Yehudi Nakam_, or _Nokmim_ for short. We are the 'Avengers' – quite a dramatic title, wouldn't you say? Far better than _'dagger-men,'_ at any rate," she said distastefully, wrinkling her nose theatrically. "As to why _I_ was sent? Well, we were told that your Nation places a great deal of weight with elder women. I can certainly respect that, though that's usually been the domain of men. Still, it is an interesting contrast. My superiors thought you'd be more at ease if approached by me than, say, some elder preaching on the Gentiles. They say that you Iroquois trace your descent matrilineally?"

"Yes, _madame."_

"Ah, how polite! It's the same with us. If your mother was a Jew, you are considered one of us. I don't suppose…?"

"I'm afraid not, no."

"Ah, what a pity! I'm sure the ladies at the church would've liked to meet with you. Well, there's no helping it – the Law is clear on that matter. And here we are! May I present to you, Connor, the Vieille Temple?"

The former church of the Knights Templar had once been a fortress, that much was plain – though why they had built it in the middle of a swamp, Connor couldn't guess. Still, it was rather impressive as churches go. It lacked walls, but a small tower was affixed to the building's corner, and Connor noted a great deal of slitted windows, as Mdm. Berr fiddled with the door.

"Mirabeau said your Order created the Hidden Blade. Is this true?"

"Oh, not at all! I'm afraid that it was first created by Darius of Persia, to kill Xerxes (who was certainly no Cyrus!) We did, however, utilize Darius' weapon in Judaea, and after the Rebellion, we spread it all across Europe. So he is half-right, at least… Typical Mirabeau…" The door opened, she grasped Connor's arm again, and they entered the Old Temple.

They passed other Assassins – men and women, heads covered by white and blue prayer shawls - on their way through the nave towards the eastwards altar. The inner chancel of the Church was flanked by three tall stone statues. One was of a woman, her shrouded head raised theatrically to the heavens, a hammer in one hand and a bloodied spike in the other. The second statue was a young man, also shrouded in the scarf of the Nokmim, a sword sheathed against his left leg. But the grandest, tallest, and most inspiring statue of all stood before the altar. It was a long bearded man, with flowing robes and wild, unruly hair. In his left hand he bore two tablets, on which were inscribed Hebrew characters – in his right hand, he bore a long, straight Staff with a forked end and a stylized animal head at its tip.

"Moses, _Madame…?"_

"Of course! In his early years, he slew a taskmaster in Egypt. He fled, and forty years later, he found that Staff of his. Then the Lord appeared before him and charged him with liberating His people from Pharaoh. So you see, we Jews are intrinsically linked to the cause of Liberty."

Mdm. Berr turned to Connor. "We have not had a fair time of it here in France. We were accused of committing the vilest of deeds - blood magic, poisoning wells - and these lies brought forth Crusades, Inquisitions – and no less than three Expulsions! Count Mirabeau has done us a great favor – he has refuted many an antisemite in Alsace, and has claimed for the Jews our full citizenship in the National Assembly. We've still a long way, to go of course, but at least he is willing to argue the point. M. Robespierre has done likewise – for their sake, we shall keep an eye on him. If any of his would-be 'donors' decide to get more forceful, well… Le Marais is a sanctuary for us – and it shall be for him as well."

* * *

_Les Catacombes,_ _carrières de Paris  
Barrière d'Enfer, Paris, France  
19 June, 1790_

Beneath the streets of Paris laid a number of abandoned, subterranean mines that connected the city. These were utilized by the Assassins of old to survey Paris and to plan strikes against the Templar – and later, Lazarene – hold on the city. These, naturally, collapsed over time as the city grew, so because of this, there were few tall buildings constructed, for fear of collapsing foundations. Three main networks of caverns and tunnels were buried beneath the streets, each of them connected by underground galleries. One of these breached the earth south of the city's gates, below a pavilion that descended into the darkness. A narrow spiral stone stairwell beckoned Connor into the earth, and holding a torch aloft before him to light the way, he was greeted by an unnerving silence broken only by the gush of water from hidden aqueduct within the walls. After a long and twisting hallway, guided only by torchlight, he stopped before a stone portal inscribed with the following: _Arrête! C'est ici l'empire de la Mort._

Connor disregarded the warning and continued on through the doorway, where he found an ossuary that had been established only two years before to house the bones of the city's overflowing deceased population. These were deposited into the walls, and archived with them were crosses, urns, and other necropolis memorabilia. Yet Connor was not all that unnerved – there was naught here but old bones and dusty books. He searched the chamber for a rusty gate, and, finding it, he strode across to it and picked the lock. After what seemed like ages of pushing and prodding the lock, the gate creaked open ominously, and the Assassin trod through the portal.

After walking for several yards through the darkened passages, they opened to a hidden chamber within the mines of Paris; the Assassin Order apparently had a fondness for creating statues of their long-dead Brethren, Robert-François Damiens among them, towering within the vaulted cavity within the Earth. There were also great statesmen and philosophers amongst their number: King Philip le Bel, with the prophet-seer Nostradamus, holding aloft a transparent sphere engraved with runes. Two new statues were quickly being sculpted from the limestone walls of Mirabeau's predecessors, the Twin Mentors, Rousseau and Voltaire, the great humanist thinkers that had died only a few years before the Estates-General had been called and the outbreak of the Revolution.

Voltaire's and Rousseau's visages now cast long shadows over the Comte in the flickering torchlight as Connor marched up to his superior. The statesman was staring up at his Mentors' stone faces, etched from the stone walls, appearing somehow more lifelike in their likeness than they had while amongst the living. Connor cleared his throat and began, awkwardly and timidly, feeling as if were intruding on a private moment. "Mirabeau-"

"You musn't call me that, now." said Mirabeau dolefully. "We just voted on it in the Assembly: There will be no Nobility, no Lands, no Titles in the Kingdom of France, henceforth. My name is Honoré Gabriel Riqueti."

"What?! Why? How did this happen?"

"It was mostly pushed through by your Lafaye- I'm sorry! Marie Joseph Yves Roch Gilbert du Mottier, _ci-devant_ Marquis de Lafayette! And the damned fools wondered why we referred to ourselves by our holdings! My God, this will take some getting used to… Well, what's done is done. The Second Estate is no more." He continued gazing at the faces of his tutors, teeth grinding in anger at the injustice done to him by the Third Estate.

Connor was silent for a moment, then said, "I must call you Gabriel, then? Or will _Monsieur_ do?"

"You shall refer to me only as _le Mentor_, within my hearing," said Riqueti, tearing his gaze away from the twin sculptures with great difficulty. A bandage was covering his left eye - it seemed as if his ocular infection had cropped up again. He blinked for a few moments, still disoriented from staring into space for so long, then said, "And the Sicarii are still patrolling le Marais regularly? Our Little Candle still burning brightly?"

_"Oui, Mentor…"_

"Good, good. And Stephane came by earlier with his report on the Poitevins… We shan't do very well on that front, I fear. Those Westerners are more Royalist than the King!" He scoffed. "He, at least, will keep his title. We can take the titles of his wife, his children, his brothers – they are the true enemy, but not our poor Louis! His estates are secure enough, silly old duffer..." He turned his wide face back to the statues before him. "I know Voltaire spoke of the Enlightened Monarchs well enough. He was always a moderate – he clashed with Rousseau often, arguing for compromise with the Despots. Would he have approved of their usurpation? Of emptied thrones and guttered crowns?" The lidless eyes of the thinker provided no response.

* * *

_Hôtel de Ville  
Paris, France  
1 July, 1790_

It was decided that Paris' districts should be reorganized, to allow for greater efficiency on the government's part in responding to crises. A debate was held at city hall on the first of July. On one side was Gilbert du Motier, _ci-devant_ Marquis de Lafayette. It had been he who had championed for the abolition of titles in France amongst the Second Estate – Connor guessed that Riquetti still harbored a grudge for that – yet despite that, the General still believed in a strong central government. Arguing against him was Georges Danton of the Cordeliers, hero of the Bastille and an officer of the National Guard. Connor felt attached to both men, and sympathized with both, yet found he could not decide on one to side with.

Connor had spoken with Gilbert before the debate, askying why he had voted to abolish his own title. The former Marquis's answer was rather obvious, in hindsight. "Can I not do what I like with my own name? Besides, if there are no Nobles, then there are no Commons, either - we are all Frenchmen, and so there is no need for conflict. It was a gesture of good faith, _mon ami,_ little else."

Now, General Motier began the debate: "Paris needs a strong municipal authority at the city's center, supported and enforced by National Guardsmen! Do we want another repetition of the Bastille?" Gilbert leaned forward from his podium, glaring pointedly at the officials. Murmurs broke out amongst the audience as they debated amongst themselves, some for, some against. None there could deny that the failure of Paris to restore order after the Bastille troubled the city. It was agreed that the fall of the fortress had been for the good of the Nation – but the aftermath, and de Launey's head, still loomed high above them, casting a long shadow over their enterprise.

Danton – a rabble-rouser in his own right – provided an admirable defense of Paris's sixty districts. His large, cherubic face contorted with fury as he argued against a stronger mayoral authority. "The _faubourgs_ of Paris have served us well in the past, and they shall do so in the future! It was the Cordeliers who rallied to the tocsin on Bastille Day, and St. Antoine dealt the fatal blow to that hateful prison! Shall we let them fade into obscurity? Will the Revolution be trampled upon by the dogs of tyrants?" He glared threateningly at his General, then turned to the officials. "The districts need more independence, if liberty is to be secured within this great city! It belongs to the People, not to the Mayor, the General, the King – _the People!"_

At the end of the day, however, the Assembly voted to abolish the districts, and it was decided that Danton's beloved Cordeliers were merged into the Theatre francais section. Danton's shoulders were rigid, fists clenched, as Connor walked up to him at the podium, Robespierre and Desmoulins – the 'Lanterne Attorney' – at his heels. Connor tried to edge away from Camille, as they all surrounded Danton to pledge their support. He was, however, inconsolable for the moment. _"Damn,_ that Lafayette! Well, this shall not be the end of the Cordeliers! Not we, who rallied first to the Revolution! I will not allow it!" Danton banged his fist on the rostrum in futility, the bang echoing through the abandoned hall. "We shall form our own club, a la the Jacobins – only it shall be open to the public, and membership will be far more accessible to the working man! One livre a month!" He barked out a laugh, and swirled towards the Deputy. "What say you to that, M. Robespierre?"

The immaculate lawyer pondered for a moment, lids lowered to the ground, then looked up and said, "It is a very plebeian goal, M. Danton, and very worthwhile – Lord knows, twenty-four livres is criminal for Jacobin admission - I would caution, however, against becoming _too_ brazen. Spies lurk in every quarter of the city, and murderers are assigned to assassinate patriots…" At this, his spectacles flashed ominously, and Connor could almost swear that Robespierre had glanced in his direction…

Still, Camille laughed. "Danton? _Not_ act brazen? You may as well ask the Earth to stop spinning, and Mdm. Veto to stop playing sheep-herder! No, he shall remain the People's Mirabeau. Or is it the People's _Riqueti,_ now? Well, I do have some good news – Lucile and I have set a date for our wedding! It'll be in December – and I would like you to be the best man, Maxime," he added hopefully, looking to his childhood friend.

The Deputy was silent for a moment, then smiled honestly. "I would be honored, Camille."

_"Splendid_ news, Desmoulins!" Danton, grinning, wrapped an arm around Camille's shoulder and – almost at light speed – slung another around Robespierre, who looked rather unnerved to make acquaintances with Danton's armpit. "Come – we must celebrate! You too, Connor! Don't even think of slipping off! You know the Defarges, yes? They make the best wine in St. Antoine…!"

* * *

_Salle du Manège  
Paris, France  
12 July, 1790_

The Second Estate was no more – the Third triumphant. There was now nothing keeping the People from conquering that last, most high echelon of society – the First Estate, the Clergy. The Roman Catholic Church owned perhaps a quarter of France's land, while only making up a very small fraction of the population. It was hoped that the new document being drafted by the National Assembly would reconcile what remained of the Church with the Revolution. However, if the debating floor was any indication, it would undoubtedly tear the Kingdom of France apart.

As the Deputies were busy gathering support, the Third Estate watched from the loge seats above. Connor leaned on the railway, peering down at the black funerary suits muttering and whispering their plans to one another. He then felt Stephane slip in next to him, and turned to greet him; however, no words came out. He simply blinked for a few moments and said, "What are you wearing."

"What? It's the latest fashion from Troyes!" Stephane had traded in his old white cap for a red one – or what passed for red, anyway. The top of the soft, conical hat was pulled forward slightly, resembling an old tree bent in the wind. A tricolor cockade was pinned to the front brim of the cap, completing the Revolutionary ensemble.

"… It looks like you took your old white hat and dumped it in a vat of wine."

"I'll have you know, this is a symbol of liberty! It was worn by freed slaves in the western provinces of the Roman Empire. It signifies everything we strive for: _Liberté, égalité, et fraternité!" _He gripped the brim of the cap and moved it about his head slightly, to better accommodate his hair.

"Of course it does. Still looks rather pink, though…"

Stephane was about to grumble a response, but he silenced and turned to the rostrum. The President of the Assembly read from the document at the dais: "The number of Bishops in the Kingdom is hereby reduced from 135 to 83, one for each Department! Bishops and priests are to be elected by the locality; these electors must sign an oath of loyalty to the Constitution! Papal authority over the appointment of the Clergy is reduced!"

Connor noted that the electors of the local clergy were not themselves required to be Catholic – in essence, anyone, Protestant, Jew, even non-believer, could vote on who would preach from the holy rostrum. It would likely also split the Clergy in two – those who accepted the oath of loyalty to the Constitution and the King, and those who did not. But it did not stop there:

Riqueti_, ci-devant _de Mirabeau, made his position clear, as per he ascended the Speaker's Rostrum of the National Assembly, all fell silent, and even his opponents listened with respectful attention to his words, which found an echo through all France;when the Torch of Provence flared_, _the Commons cheered and the Clergy flinched_. _"Some members of this body say that the Pope should decide this matter. Fie! you would arm Catholic France against Free France! You who stand against this measure seek to resolve our political scenes in the horrors of a religious war! Now, if the Church were separated from the State, and self-supported, the Pope would have every right to govern its affairs – as it is, _we_ pay the tithes, _we_ give them land, and yet we have no say in its governance. _This must end!"_ The choice Riqueti lay before the Assembly was simple: Separation of Church and State, or State Governance of the Church.

The Abbé Sieyès had spent much of the afternoon pounding away at the rostrum, arguing against the measure – but it soon became clear that its passage was inevitable, and so he quit the floor, striding defiantly out of the Riding School, head held aloft. Other clergy members got up and did the same, robes snapping as they rushed from the Hall, refusing to vote on the measure – what these Revolutionaries were proposing was a schism within the whole of the Roman Catholic Church, and they, at least, would not be a party to it. Whatever their colleagues approved of here today, in this most revered of riding halls, His Holiness in Rome would most certainly not approve.

Robespierre held the opposite view. He argued for the changes: "The Clergy are simply magistrates whose duty is to maintain and carry on public worship! Any aspect of the Church that was not useful to society must go. Religious institutions, if not publicly useful, should be made so: they ought be maintained by the locality. Electing _c_hurch officials is the right course for the nation: the men who care for our souls should be chosen through the pure, unmediated expression of the Popular Will, in accordance with Rosseau! Existing clergymen should play no part in these elections."

Toward the end of his speech, Robespierre suddenly raised a more obscure issue: "… I shall now pronounce my support for married priests within the Catholic Church!" An end to celibacy, and all the trouble it would cause with the Pope in Rome, it seemed, was a step too far for the Riding School. A barrage of disapproval suddenly cut off Robespierre's speech. The Deputy looked more than a little outraged, himself, at this reception.

Stephane laughed. "Ah, Riqueti won't like that one bit! Wasn't he talking about ending celibacy just the other day?"

"He was, yes. It's probably best that Robespierre stole his thunder. Just one mention of it, and the Candle has been snuffed. Besides, could you imagine Sieyès marrying?" The Assassins shuddered theatrically at the prospect, snickering quietly to themselves as the room erupted.

Chastened, Robespierre quit the floor, and a vote was taken. The motion passed. The Clergy would take the Oath.

* * *

_Château de Saint-Cloud  
Paris, France  
3 July, 1790_

In June, the Royal family had been escorted to their summer palace at St. Cloud, overlooking the Seine, just a few kilometers outside the walls of Paris. Now, in the lingering light of the falling dusk and humid air of the gardens, there sat a woman. Her Majesty had agreed to receive a powerful member of the National Assembly, only a few days before the anniversary of the Bastille. Thus far, she had steered clear of that hateful body – as France slipped ever further into debt, and society hung upon a precipice, the masses blamed the Hapsburg for the most outlandish crimes and conspiracies. After being relocated to the Tuileries, she had finally thrown her hands high in disgust – she refused to partake in that most acidic of enterprises, which her husband called 'governance'. Her malcontented subjects decried her as 'too Austrian' – her brother, Leopold, warned her frequently in his letters against becoming 'too French'. Just like their brother, and their mother before him, the Emperor was always prodding into Antoinette's affairs. She certainly would not turn Lazarene overnight…!

The King now spent hours away, locked in his study, looking at Lord knows what. Antoinette had her suspicions as to what he was doing, but now hardly seemed to be the time to address them. She must meet with this man, for the good of the family. Desperation had driven her to this meeting, with a man who had practically led that despicable legislature, for which she blamed her most current woes. Every day, Louis had been forced to sign away more of his power, and they were, effectively, prisoners in the Tuileries. They were only allowed outside its grasp under escort – even here, they almost watched her every move. Not here, though – their master had sent the dogs away, so they could commune. She was told that the man could be bought, having accrued a vast debt in his own time. As the man approached, she sat elegantly on a bench of white marble, surrounded by high oleander and taxus trees, standing at the edge of the grass-plat. From this impromptu throne, the Queen would receive the homage of her new knight.

The Deputy stopped near the Queen, and saluted her, with a deep, profound bow, taking her offered hand. But even with this grand, theatric show of loyalty, Marie Antoinette shivered at the sight of the huge, vulgar, sick man on whom her family's future had come to depend.

He kissed her hand and, raising his swollen, pitted, and scarred face, Honoré Gabriel Riqueti, _ci-devant_ Comte de Mirabeau, smiled. "Madame, the monarchy is saved!"

* * *

_Bonsoir: _(French) 'Good evening.' (greeting)

_Hkhl motr: _(Hebrew) 'Everything is permitted.' I think. As Arabic and Hebrew are both Semitic languages, I thought that a Hebrew response to the Arabic maxim would be a nice inside joke for the Nokmim. Apologies if I butchered either language!

_Dam Yehudi Nakam:_ (Hebrew) 'Jewish Blood Will Be Avenged,' a group of Jewish Assassins that targeted Nazi war criminals after the Holocaust. The phrase itself predates the organization itself, however.

_Nokmim:_ (Hebrew) 'The Avengers.'

_Vieille Temple:_ (French) 'Old Temple', built by the Templars as their Parisian headquarters until the 13th century, when they constructed and moved their operations to The Paris Temple, known as the Temple Prison during the Revolution…

_Carrières de Paris:_ (French) 'Mines of Paris'. It's because of these things that there are so few tall buildings in Paris. Hollowed limestone and human bones just aren't good for foundations!

_Arrête! C'est ici l'empire de la Mort: _(French) 'Stop! Here lies the Empire of Death.'

_Ci-devant:_ (French) 'From before', as in, 'the former Marquis', etc.

_Faubourg:_ (French) 'Suburb.'

* * *

_DUN DUUN….. DUUUUUUUN!_

_The Key to the Bastille is still kept at Mount Vernon, although it no longer opens anything. That's a real pity… Maybe a lock could be made to a bathroom? And that bathroom could then be called the 'Fortress of Despotism'! The actual presentation to George Washington late in the summer of 1790 was an honor that fell to John Rutledge, Jr., a South Carolinian returning to the United States from London._

_The French Revolution might be one of the few times in history the Jews ever had it good – or better than their Catholic neighbors, anyway. The ascendancy of Napoleon proved even more progressive – leading the more conservative rulers in Europe to dub him as the 'Anti-Christ'. Ah, that's gonna be fun..._

_The Staff of Moses was designed after an Egyptian Was-scepter, created by Set, the Egyptian God of Chaos. Set (who was also the God of Foreigners) constantly feuded with Horus, the God of Order and the Patron of the Pharaohs. Moses introduced a little Chaos, and the Order of Egypt – based on slavery – collapsed as a result. Funny how things work out, dunnit?_

_The title of the next chapter is: It'll Be Fine!_


	7. It'll Be Fine!

**My only defense for this abomonably late entry is that I've just begun to transition into college… where I have learned that 'self-taught classes' are a thing. DO NOT TAKE THEM UNPREPARED.**

**firelordzuko:** Don't worry, it all serves a purpose... Eventually.  
**  
Chapter VI: It'll Be Fine!**

**_"The National Assembly recognizes and proclaims, in the presence and under the auspices of the Supreme Being, the rights of man and of the citizen."  
_****_~ Declaration of the Rights of Man, 26 August, 1789_**

* * *

_Champ de Mars  
Paris, France_  
_13 July, 1790_

Tomorrow would be the first anniversary of the fall of the Bastille, the great fortress of despotism, toppled by the General Will. Ever since Louis XVI had agreed to limit his role in government within the confines of the Constitution in 1789, so-called Festivals of Federation had begun popping up throughout the country, from the high courts of the Nobility, to the vast a disparate conscripts of the National Guard, all of whom jubilantly swore patriotic oaths to the Revolution, happy for any excuse for a party as optimism swept all of France. Reflecting this, Paris itself was teeming with positive, upbeat energy – a grandscale _Fête de la Fédération_ was planned to celebrate Bastille Day, on the Champs de Mars parade ground, a vast open space on the Left Bank of the Seine, not far from the city's center. The plans were made just three weeks before Bastille Day: a grand amphitheater with tiered seating for Paris's citizens, a triumphal arch at one end, and an Altar of the Fatherland in the center. With so little time left, it was a wonder that a single brick had been laid. Yet, the Parisians, still teeming with goodwill, devoted all their time and energy into clearing debris and leveling the parade ground.

The same calloused hands that had torn down the Fortress of Despotism now united to construct the Altar to the Fatherland. Commonfolk trotted through the parade ground, loading great wheelbarrows with cluttered wooden debris and shifting great piles of earth with similar methods. Monks with cockades pinned to their cassocks – recently freed from their dynastic obligations by the Civil Constitution - trampled the earth alongside soldiers, laborers, and well-dressed women. Excitement, cooperation, and holiday spirit would accomplish the they worked, the People began to sing a martial, fast-paced song that urged them on in their work. Immediately, Connor recognized the theme of the refrain: a common phrase used by Benjamin Franklin, envoy of the Continental Congress, and fan favorite of the French; _ça ira. _The message of the Revolution was clear – hope:

_Ah ! ça ira, ça ira, ça ira,  
Le peuple en ce jour sans cesse répète,  
Ah ! ça ira, ça ira, ça ira,  
Malgré les mutins tout réussira.  
Nos ennemis confus en restent là,  
Et nous allons chanter " Alléluia !"_

Stephane chuckled joyously as the song progressed. He and Connor were helping raise the King's pavilion on the opposite side of the amphitheater from the Arch – the pavilion, naturally, was gilded and layered with gold and lilies. A great azure canopy had been draped over the impromptu shelter – the meteorological authorities had deemed Bastille Day as a day for dispersed, periodic rain. Indeed, although the day had begun as a sweltering, it had eventually given way to wispy gray storm clouds that blotted away the sun. Such was the transient wiles of summer. "Ah, Franklin is surely smiling in his sleep, _mon ami!_ I must say, we've had a rather hard time of it, but that song is dreadfully catchy."

"…" Still, Connor could not particularly focus on the festivities and merriment of the moment. Anne Théroigne had left Paris back in May, penniless and hounded by the Royalist papers, which had exposed her past career as a wandering courtesan, and her numerous clients besides: a poor landlord in London; the Marquis de Parsan; an Italian singer in Genoa (who, it was said, was a terrific, world-renowned soprano); and, of course, there was the time when, as a newcomer to the Capital, she masqueraded as the downtrodden Comtesse de Campinado (a place which certainly had never existed until that point). This was the sort of thing done when times were hard. She had broken no laws, or stirred any riots – yet they had ridiculed her all the same, and had practically ridden her before them from Paris.

_"Name one human,"_ she had asked as she did her packing, ferociously flinging her unnecessarily vibrant coats past Connor's head into her travelling case, _"one creature on God's green earth whose reputation would shine intact through the scrutiny I have endured! Robespierre, perhaps, but I'm half sure he's cheating, somehow…"_ After Connor had expressed interest in her trip, she had simply sighed said, _"Oh, I'm just visiting Mercourt. I mean to be back in a few months – the vultures will have flown to fresh carcasses by then. You won't miss me too much, will you? Don't worry; I'm sure Stephane can entertain you while I am gone (although not too much, mind). And keep Danton on his leash, would you? He wasn't too thrilled by my speech at the Cordeliers."_

Her absence was noticeable, naturally. She'd been a very active member of the Parisian Assassins – a frequent at the RidingSchool, viewing the madness in her scarlet coat, a small claque orbiting her; patrolling the Palais-Royal at night, pistols cocked and ready, within arm's reach. Earlier that very day, another Assassin, a brewer and National Guardsman named Santerre, informed Mentor Riquetti that they'd received word from the Austrian Brotherhood – that, after visiting Marcourt, she'd gone home to the breakaway Belgian Republic of Liège; and, after more than a few pointed inquiries from her brothers, rumors emerged: that she'd been abducted, that the Austrians had got her, on the grounds that she had been engaged in a plot against the life of Her Majesty, Marie Antoinette, the Emperor's sister.

So, as events stood, a fairly high-ranking Parisian Assassin was in the custody of the Teutonic Knights of the Austrian Empire – and not just any Teuton, for the Emperor was also the Hochmeister of that Knightly Order. Their Mentor, Riquetti, had not seemed too concerned – he had, infuriatingly, responded to Connor's concerns by shrugging it off and, with a cheeky grin, declared, _"Ça ira!"_ Indeed, Riquetti had been overtly cheery these past few days, despite his failing health – he now had greater trouble walking the palatial grounds of the Champs de Mars, panting with effort whenever circumstances required him. Whilst Connor, Stephane, and the Parisians worked on erecting the pavilion, Riquetti and other members of the National Assembly were stationed in the _École des Cadets-gentilshommes_ to the south, a fairly recent military academy, along with their families.

By the end of the day, a great depression had been hollowed out of the earth, framed by a pair of 400,000 spectator earth steps built on each side of the field. The pavilion was raised above the southern terrace, for Their Majesties' comfort. A triumphal arch beckoned the National Guard to its rightful place amongst the People. The Seine was crossed by a bridge of boats leading to the Altar of the Fatherland in the center. It jutted from the center of the amphitheatre like a great tower, a new Fortress of Liberty. Climbing the steps to the Altar, Connor read the inscription:_ "All mortals are equal; it is not by birth but only virtue that they are distinguished. In every state the Law must be universal and mortals whosever they be are equal before it."_ A curious statement to emblazon on a religious devotional, especially given the Catholics' devotion to their Heavenly monarchs; but the phrasing was certainly inspiring to all who read it. As the sun set on the _Journée des brouettes,_ the people of Paris continued to sing into the night, welcoming the new dawn and the happy conclusion of the French Revolution:

_Ah ! ça ira, ça ira, ça ira,  
Sans craindre ni feu, ni flame,  
Le Français toujours vaincra!_

* * *

_Hôtel de Lafayette, 183 rue de Bourbon  
Paris, France  
14 July, 1790_

_"Connor, wake up! I am not going to suffer through this alone!"_

Immediately, Connor's eyes snapped open, reaching for a missing tomahawk. He blinked, adjusting to the dim light of his room – there, standing in the doorway, was Thomas Paine, newly returned from the United States. He was comically dressed in a striped sleeping cap, and he bore a candle in his hand. Outside, the Assassin could hear a heavy deluge of rain battering against the roof of the _Hôtel de Lafayette._

"What time is it?"

"Four in the morning; just enough time for the French to show off to the world. Lafayette's already assembled the National Guard. They've invited delegates from other nations – Swedes, Spaniards, Poles, Turks, Chaldeans, Greeks, and all the rest of the human race (though why they'd bother to get up at this hour is beyond me). We've been invited as well – the States, that is. You should come along too, if the Iroquois League is to be represented in any capacity."

Swiftly throwing on his white robes (as Paine rolled his eyes to the ceiling, attempting to some form of modesty and humming '_Ça ira' _softly to himself), Connor asked, "Why?"

"Because your race, no matter what the detractors say, is mortal as well – the Rights of Man belong to you as much as any son of Europe. That aside, your own laws inspired the American Constitution, so, by extension, you've inspired the French one as well. It's a pity the Iroquois couldn't send their own delegates – ah well, _c'est la_ vie." Seeing that Connor had finished, Paine grabbed his arm and dragged him into the hallway, heading towards the door. "Now, there's someone I want you to meet - he'll be leading the delegation, and you might find some common _ground_ with him..."

As the pair stepped over the threshold into the storm, Paine stopped: thunder rolled across the sky, and in answer, cannonade cracked to greet the Constitutional Kingdom of France into being. A strong downpour fell from a gray sky, the storm clouds having congregated in the night. Glumly, Connor was reminded of the prelude Bastille Day itself, when the old prison fell; and also of the October Days, when the road to Versailles had been soaked through to the earth and the _poissardes_ had had to dry themselves off in the Estates-General. In the rue de Bourbon before them, a small delegation of emissaries and sailors awaited them, the Stars and Stripes folded to protect it from the rain – yet still piercing the early morning. They continued to the front of the congregation. "Ah, and here we are!" Paine stopped again before a sailor leading the column in soaked, ragged attire, topped off with a splendid bicorne hat. "Connor, this is Captain John Paul Jones."

_"The_ John Paul Jones? Commander of the _Bonhomme Richard?"_ Connor was suddenly very excited to have met a fellow nautical mind – and indeed, there were few greater than the Scotsman before him. Whereas Connor had stuck to the Caribbean, Jones had boldly sailed to Albion itself and attacked British shipping from their home ports – raiding merchant ships in the Irish Sea, besieging Whitehaven, and dueling with _HMS Serapis_ in the North Sea. He had even been knighted by Louis XVI, given the now-defunct title, 'Capitaine-Chevalier'. Afterwards, he had served Catherine the Great in the Imperial Russian Navy. Now, more than any other time in his life, Connor felt a great sense of honor in meeting such a distinguished person.

Jones smiled and offered his hand to Connor, who took it (perhaps too eagerly). In a slight, Lowland Scottish accent, he asked, "You are Captain Connor, yes? Of the _Aquila?_ Paine tells me you served in the Battle of the Chesapeake. It's a shame I couldn't make it, but I hear you certainly did a number on those _Sassenach; _I'm obliged to acquaint you now."

"Oh, and I you!" As they marched through the city, Connor and Jones fell into an engaged discussion about nautical affairs and skirmishes – Connor's escapades in the West Indies and Mexico were matched by Jones's short sally East, into the Black Sea, and his battles against the Turks. From what little Jones said, his Russian service had not been particularly fruitful, despite the Empress's confidence in him (he had certainly not gotten to Constantinople!) They soon joined up with 14,000 _Fédérés_, their bayonets clinking in the rain, all arranged according to their respective _départements_, under 83 National Guard banners; snapping above them all was the _tricolore_, a red band at the hoist, joined with white and blue, fluttering sharply in the savage winds. Accompanying them were musicians and instruments of all stripes – pipers from Brittany playing the mad music of the Celts, horn blowers from Marseilles echoing the clarion call of the Revolution, and three hundred drummers from the west, underscoring the martial melodies. Crossing the Seine, they come to the rue Saint-Antoine, to the place where the Bastille had once stood. They then marched on to Saint-Denis and Saint-Honoré before crossing the boat-bridge to the Left Bank, where they faced the triumphal arch of the nation. As they marched into the Champ de Mars, artillery planted on the heights fired to welcome them, booming the tidings all over France. It was then noon.

The crowd clapped hysterically as the American delegation crossed under the arch. It was then that John Paul Jones gave the order to fly the Stars and Stripes. As the American flag was raised for the first time on foreign soil, the Parisians cheered and called out, _"Vive l'Amerique!"_

Following the Americans, other foreign delegations arrived, and it soon became clear to Connor that, just as the French had set up their ostentatious display, so too were their honored guests determined to put on the grandest spectacle. Paine looked past Connor's shoulder at the approaching dignitaries, grunting in recognition. He nodded and said, "Those will be the Swedes, lead by Count Axel von Fersen – _no,_ don't make eye contact," said Paine, jabbing Connor lightly in the side. All he could make out between the Norsemen was a young nobleman astride a destrier, bearing a yellow cross on a blue field, hanging limply from its pole. He was followed by the royal anthem, the _Gustafs skål, _pounded out by horns and harps, ironically celebrating the return of Autocracy to the North.

Next came the Turks. Now there was a study in the exotic! The bugle horns and stringed harps of the Swedes were jarringly transitioned towards echoing lutes and booming, thunderous drums. They came astride swift and nimble steeds from Arabia, eagerly tossing their manes in the rain, and on stranger beasts still – tall, spindly creatures with high backs and long necks, almost loitering into the amphitheater, chewing as they came, their saddles enveloped by heavy furs and exotic rugs (already sagging with rainwater.) The Ottoman delegation was among the largest; their crimson banners sodden, star and crescent piercing the twilight. That peculiar alliance of Francis and Suleiman still stood – Capet and Osman remaining on good terms, despite the misgivings of France's new Hapsburg Queen. Connor had a feeling that there was a good reason for the Hapsburgs to distrust both them and the French. Paine nodded his head at their leader, a Turk robed in white and grasping a sword in his right hand – his finger was branded also. The Turk grinned fiercely at Connor and assumed his delegation's position.

Finally, there came the Hapsburgs. Feeling rather upstaged by their Ottoman enemies, the Austrians arrived with much fanfare and musical accompaniment, horns blowing into the storm and drums clashing in tune with the thunder and their own footsteps. Their golden banners were branded with a black, two-headed eagle, the sigil of the Holy Roman Empire – their millennial struggle with the preceding infidel had given them a divine purpose as the Bulwark of Europe. Still, Connor felt an immense fury at the German lines as they marched primly and methodically onto the parade grounds. The Austrian leader – a Belgian diplomat called Florimond Claude, _ci-devant_ comte de Mercy-Argentau - saluted the Queen smartly and took his place closest to the side of his Emperor's sister, nearest the Royal Pavilion. Their Majesties were seated in makeshift thrones to direct the event, tricolor cockades haphazardly pinned onto their hats – Antoinette, dressed rather modestly in linen and unpowdered hair (which would no doubt be criticized later), whilst her husband grasped his royal scepter, the Hand of Justice, in his left hand – his right was thrust into his navy military jacket. It was then that Connor finally located the Assembly's delegates – deputies sent to represent the Nation as a whole. They stood proudly – and drily - behind their King and Queen: Riquetti and Robespierre, Sieyès and Guillotin – they, at least were safe from the rain. Such were the privileges of politics.

There were many more foreign arrangements aside the ones mentioned – Russians and Prussians, Spaniards and Britons, Venetians and Persians – but they were all upstaged by the Commander of the National Guard, the General Gilbert du Motier, _ci-devant_ Marquis de Lafayette, and Hero of the Two Worlds. Following after his white charger was his young son, ten-year old Georges Washington de Lafayette, astride a young colt – a junior marshal-in-training. Surrounded by mud-splattered regiments of the National Guard, the General cantered below the triumphal arch, entering the amphitheatre. At the King's answering rap from the Hand of Justice, Lafayette raised his hand for silence amongst the crowd. In the respondent deafness, a priest in rather muted robes limped up the steps to the Altar, wearing a tricolor sash over his golden vestments, signifying him as a juring priest, having already sworn an oath to uphold the Constitution himself. Connor was surprised that no one moved to help the man – but he looked like the type to refuse such aid, if offered. Leaning heavily on his crosier, and surveying the crowd beneath his enameled mitre, he stopped beside the Altar and held up his hand in benediction. With rain still pouring from the heavens, the priest began his Mass at the open-air altar and blessed the Tricolor flapping hard against its pole like a great wet towel_. _At Connor's raised eyebrow, Paine said, "That is Deputy Talleyrand, the Bishop of Autun." Smiling, he identified him further with the title, _"'Le diable boiteux.'_ I would not have chosen him to bless the occasion – or anyone, for that matter – but there's statesmanship for you. The people enjoy hearing stories."

After the Mass ended, General Motier took over the proceedings. The sun burst through the clouds, and the rain miraculously ceased as Gilbert, looking down his long nose, surveyed the motley ranks below him from his high white charger: forty thousand National Guardsmen, a vagrant battalion of children and youths, another of grizzled veterans, companies of professional soldiers and sailors of His Majesty's Armed Forces, delegates from the new departments of France, and embassies from all the nations of the Earth. Trotting past the Altar to the Fatherland, he turned his steed toward the pavilion – the French Guard parted to let him through, and as he arrived at the feet of the King, he dismounted to receive his permission to administer the patriotic oath to his subjects. After a nod from Louis, the General marched back down through the rows of bayonets and, as he climbed the steps to the Altar, Talleyrand directed him to the inscription on its side. He drew his saber and raised it to the brightening sky, declaring, in a loud voice, the patriotic oath: "I, Gilbert du Motier, as Captain of the National Guard of Paris, do, on behalf of the People, swear forever to be faithful to the Nation, to the Law and to the King, to uphold with all our might the Constitution as decided by the National Assembly and accepted by the King, and to protect according to the laws the safety of people and properties, transit of grains and food within the kingdom, the public contributions under whatever forms they might exist, and to stay united with all the French with the indestructible bounds of brotherhood."

The heady blend of religious sentiment and militarism went down well with the crowd, and in this symbolic way the whole of France gave its support to the Revolutionary actions of Paris_. _As one, the multitude affirmed the patriotic oath by declaring the national motto of the Constitutional Kingdom: _"La Nation, la Loi, le Roi!"_

Lafayette was followed by the President of the National Assembly. Eventually, His Majesty extracted his arm from within his embroidered jacket and, standing, raised his hand skyward. The King took his oath: "I, Louis of House Bourbon, the Sixteenth of My Name, do, as King of the French, swear to use the power given to me by the constitutional law of the State, to maintain the Constitution as decided by the National Assembly and accepted by myself, and to enforce the laws and uphold its decrees."Immediately, a ripple effect coursed through the crowd – mostly thankful murmuring that his regnal style had been shortened, but the people also expressed amazement. The title Louis had given himself - "King of the French" – was an effort to create a new type of monarchy: one which based its right to rule on the support of the People, rather than the sacred right of royal blood, and his descent from Henri III of Navarre, who had ruled as Henri IV of France, as illustrated in by his old, dynastic title – "King of France and Navarre."

Suddenly, Connor noticed Riquetti sidle next to Her Majesty and bend down towards her, murmuring in her ear. She frowned, but nodded to the deputy and, as the Mentor subtly retreated, the Queen rose and grabbed the hand of the Dauphin, the future Louis XVII, and raised them both to the Altar, crying, "This is my son, who, like me, joins in the same sentiments." This, apparently, was the end of the day's oath-taking – and Her Majesty's subjects, their grievances against her seemingly forgotten, burst into acclamations and applause, many even bursting into song. The instruments that had been paraded in by the French now began to play in earnest, underscoring the singing and jubilations of the crowd with the royal anthem to the Green Gallant:

_Au diable guerres  
Rancunes et partis!  
Commes nos pères  
Chantons en vrais amis!_

_Vive la France,  
Vive le roi Henri!  
Vive la France,  
Vive le roi Louis!_

"'Long live King Louis?' That was more than a little shoehorned in. Couldn't have been more overt, could they? Well, that nonsense is done," said Paine, gruffly. "Come on John, Connor – the madness now moves to a feast at the _Château de La Muette_. I hear the Mongolfier Brothers have set up another one of their hot air balloons in the garden – have you ever been in one, Connor? It's worth the jaunt for that alone!"

* * *

_Le Marais,  
Paris, France  
26 July, 1790_

_IT'S ALL OVER FOR US! Five or six hundred heads lopped off would have assured you repose and happiness; a false humanity has restrained your arm and suspended your blows; it will cost the lives of millions of your brothers. ~ __'L'ami du peuple'_

_"Six hundred heads?_" Connor blinked rapidly at the flyer Marat had just nailed to a post in the Marais quarter, not quite comprehending the depth of his ferocity. Marat had asked Connor to join him on a mission, yes, but this was a tad too extreme, for his tastes."Surely you jest, Marat! A few Germans at the border won't plunge the country into anarchy quite yet! And anyway, after the beheadings, where on earth would you put the damned things?!"

Almost two weeks after the grand-scale Festival of Federation, word reached the Assassin Order regarding Anne Théroigne – the Austrians had interrogated the Assassin fiercely, and now they had asked permission from the 'King of the French' to cross His Majesty's border (presumably to search for her accomplices). The Emperor Leopold II was doubtless concerned for his sister's safety, and was ready to pounce on the divided Kingdom - and if the Holy Roman Empire happened to gain some new territory in the endeavor, well, that would only be a happy accident! Marat – recently returned from hiding in London, and still a wanted transient - had, as usual, quickly escalated the situation, far beyond what was probably required. A few more patrols, perhaps hastened recruitments along the border with the Austrian Netherlands were called for; but the brutal execution of so many innocent people was simply madness to Connor's ears.

"What? Me?" Marat blinked innocently at Connor – or, at least, he tried to come off as innocent; the open sores and inflamed rashes on his face terribly undermined that effort. "Connor, I am _surprised_ at you! I would _never_ call for any actual bloodshed! I'm just trying to make a strong impression – this is simply journalistic integrity, or creative license, if you will, never mind what that censorious Malouet would have you believe. We must destroy the nation's fatal sense of security! Counterrevolution is stirring within the Provinces, and all over Europe – CONSTANT VIGILANCE!" His sudden proclamation made Connor jump, surprised by his vehemence – though he really shouldn't have been, by this point. "Just a week ago, Austrians were prancing through the streets of Paris, and now they amass on our borders in droves, at the behest of _l'Autrichienne_ – soon, they will spill over, silencing the People's Revolution for the rest of time! Besides, what are some hundred _aristocrats_ to the citizens of Paris? Should the Austrians decide to march on this city, they will find it divided amongst itself – the Third Estate will be leveled, and their bones shall lay the foundations for a New Bastille. The King will then reign, triumphant, on the ashes of Liberty."

Connor restrained himself from raising his voice in protest – as Marat had been the one to do most of the dividing, in his view – yet he simply said, "Let us suppose the nobility have conspired with Austria. What of it? We need only be more vigilant, and persecute these Teutons more fiercely. Do you have so little faith in the Brotherhood?"

"Yes." Marat's wide mouth scowled, as if he had smelt a soured egg. "You might not be aware of as much as I, _mon ami._ Our good Mentor Riquetti, _ci-devant_ comte de Mirabeau, is no stranger to debt – yet he has suddenly come into a great deal of money, and he's been far from discreet with it. Now doubtless, you've not taken a look at the Order's financial log, but I've made it a tendency to do so, and I have made a discovery. Two years ago, Riquetti was obliged to send his breeches to the pawnshop to get six francs; today he swims in opulence – he even has three mistresses, whom he showers with gifts! I did warn you, you know – he's a nobleman, a blue-blooded leech, through and through. No doubt, he's secured promises from Leopold and his sister, that despicable woman… I've connected the dots, you see. They are rather glaring in hindsight, they always are! It was _Riquetti_ who informed on Mlle. Théroigne de Marcourt, that she was visiting Belgium, that she was plotting against the life of our _glorious_ Queen, and that the Austrians were welcome to her. It was _Riquetti_ who informed the Queen on our movements, and that we have a great many of our number patrolling the Tuileries – that's why she was so eager to flee to Saint-Cloud for the spring. It was _Riquetti_ who opposed the abolition of titles and who advocated the retainment of his feudal holdings. In short, our Mentor has abandoned the Brotherhood; he has made himself a friend of the Queen, and any who befriends the Queen makes himself an enemy of the People. Doubtless, he fancies himself a new Al Mualim; but, by the precedent set by Mentor Altaïr, the punishment for treachery – even by a Mentor - is death."

Marat's mention of Théroigne certainly caught his attention. His mind was doing cartwheels as he tried to fill in the puzzle the good doctor had laid out before him. He remembered the comte de Mirabeau lambasting Stephane and he, ordering them to show restraint in the streets. He remembered the same comte, ordering them both to save the Queen. He remembered asking the Mentor about Théroigne's well-being, and he remembered Riquetti smiling, mockingly, and his only reply had been, of course, _'It'll be fine!'_ Still, Connor was not one to betray the trust of his tutors, based on the accusations of another, no matter how shady their dealings or actions. "You speak of treason."

"Treason?" Marat actually stopped and looked incredulously at Connor. "Ah, but you are truly wedded to that precious honor of yours! Well, I hope that honor warms you in the grave, for that is the only place it will take you!"

"Truly, Dr. Marat, there is no warmer place than the Earth's warm embrace, no? One would hardly need to cuddle with honor, in that case." From a side alley stepped what Connor almost took for a blind woman, ragged and wrinkled, her long, pale hair hanging limply along her shoulders – yet she still gripped her staff stiffly and resolutely, and her eyes were too directed at Marat to be blind. It was then that he noticed a Star of David amulet clasped to her neck, and a glimpse of white beneath her soot-stained attire.

"Madame Berr," croaked Marat, respectfully slipping off his shoddy, mud-encrusted hat. It was a surreal sight, to see the short, poisonous man before him acting the gentleman. Still, the Assassin got the feeling that this gesture was more out of respect for the woman's advanced age and experience, rather than her station in life. The Nokmim smiled at the doctor and, taking his arm, began to walk with them. "You have news regarding our _beloved_Mentor?"

_"Oui,_ Doctor." The old Jewess's eyes darted about vigilantly, as if Mirabeau's spies would leap upon them at any moment. She pursed her pleated lips and said, morosely, "I will be plain with you, Marat – I do not like this. Riquetti, for all his faults, has fought well for our rights as citizens of France. He has led us ably, since the Twins died – and I do not think now is the right time for new leadership. France is too volatile for such a transition. A single spark and the powder keg will explode."

"King Louis also emancipated the Jews, up to a point – and that is all we shall ever get, so long as the current government remains in power. As for the nation's volatility - all the more reason to expose him for the fraud he is! The Brotherhood is at stake, Madame! _Liberty_ is at stake! Remember the Creed!"

She drew a breath and let loose a long-suffering sigh, well befitting her age, and then, grudgingly, lips pursed, she bobbed her head in affirmation. "He has purchased a large property in _le Marais_ – quite close to M. Robespierre's second-floor flat, conveniently enough. This brings me to why we asked you here, M. Connor…"

* * *

Apparently, he had only been chosen for this reconnaissance mission due to his youth (Madame Berr's leaping days were long gone, sadly) and silence (Marat, perhaps justly, thought himself too loud to undertake most of their covert operations.) So it was that Connor found himself perched on a branch beside the a third-story window at Riquetti's new estate in the Marais district. From what Connor could make out from this tentative position, Gabriel Riquetti – or Mirabeau, as he was being referred to in the conversation - was receiving last-minute details from the court favorite of Her Majesty, Comte Axel von Ferson the Younger. "…Louis-Philippe d'Orléans returned to Paris earlier in July, M. Mirabeau."

"Well, that is very fortunate! Now he can move to the Tuileries, and the Bourbons can all stew together, one unhappy family, hated by the Mob!" He snorted. "For the Revolution to succeed, the King must escape this city. His Majesty is a prisoner in Paris; have him relocated the capital to the Provinces - best of all to Rouen – once there, he should appeal to the Nation at large and summon a great convention. When the People have gathered, the King must recognized the great changes that have swept across France, that feudalism and absolutism have forever disappeared, and that a new relationship between King and People must arise. To establish this new Constitutional Kingdom will not be difficult; the People do not want a Republic – those jackaknapes in _les Cordeliers _might, but France – the Bocage, the Marais Charette, Anjou and Brittany - will always answer the call of her King."

"A fine plan, Monsieur; now, regarding that Assassin recently taken into custody-"

Mirabeau interrupted the Swede. "I've already sent word to the _Hochmeister_ regarding Mlle. Théroigne: if he does not find any evidence for a plot against the life of Her Majesty, the Queen, then Théroigne must be returned to the Brotherhood immediately! There's no sense in keeping her without cause. And I won't brook any of this border-crossing nonsense either! The boundaries of the Constitutional Kingdom of the French are inviolable, and shall remain so long as I live! The Queen does not need any more protection from the Teutons - any more, and the Brotherhood will become suspicious."

"I shall relay this information to Her Majesty and the Austrian ambassador. It shan't be a long drive to the Tuileries." A chair scoot. "One last word, M. Mirabeau… You do know there's a gland popping up on your neck, yes?"

_"Oui, oui,_ that's very interesting," said Mirabeau, dismissively. "Now remember, it's six-thousand francs per month. I shan't accept any of those damned _assignats_ from Their Majesties – only gold, or I expose this entire arrangement to the National Assembly, the Cordeliers, and to the Brotherhood, and we shall all dance from the Lanterne together!"

* * *

After making his report, Connor stood before Marat as he said, practically oozing with satisfaction (and other liquids besides), "Well now, it appears we can make a case for his treachery – he has broken all three Tenets of the Creed: he has compromised the Brotherhood through Théroigne de Marcourt; he has revealed himself to the enemy, the Order of St. Lazarus; and he has, through his actions, brought death upon millions of innocent men and women. By allying himself with the corrupt, he has made himself an enemy of the peace we have striven so hard to obtain in the world. Riquetti has purchased himself many fine things of late, but they will cost him far more than gold or _assignats_ – if you would learn anything from the Assassins of Paris, Connor, learn this: to break the Creed is death."

_"Be'ezrat hashem."_ Madame Berr nodded, resigned to the present course of action. "Shall I gather the Nokmim? I've set them on various paths of patrols around Robespierre's flat, but I can have them all rallied and within Riquetti's new estate by the stroke of midnight, if need be – it would be a simple matter, and I'm sure we could eventually find a Lanterne sturdy enough for him..."

Marat paused; lips twisted in thought, then shook his head, shrugging. "No, no… Riquetti has long been afflicted with recurrent afflictions. Why bother risking everything in a single night? If he is half dead already, then we shall simply add another half: the old methods will do. They're not quite as fun, but they're just as effective, all the same." Marat smiled. "And, of course, a successor must be chosen for the task of Mentor – I have several candidates that might be worth your consideration. Now, whilst we depose Riquetti, another blow shall be dealt against the Regime elsewhere. I will send word to Colonel Santerre in Saint-Antoine…"

Connor grasped his way into the conversation at that point. "So, are you going to disappear after this meeting as well, M. Marat? Where can I find you after this?"

The physician scowled. "_Doctor_ Marat! I didn't go through all those years of medical school – in damned _Scotland,_ of all places - to have _Monsieurs_ thrown at me… Anyway, I set up shop in the Cordeliers district back in January – Danton has been _quite_ accommodating, and the neighbors are all suitably Revolutionary. It's right on the rue des Cordeliers, in fact. We shall begin our plans there; it's not as bourgeois as the _Hôtel de Lafayette_, but-"

Connor interrupted him. "You are not suggesting that I join you in this operation of yours, are you? I am not a Frenchman – I have no say in your choice of leadership. Nor do I want it." The Colonial Brotherhood, while less traditional, had also been much more honorable – there had been none of this skulking in the dark and grandiose power plays on the part of its individual members. For all of its faults, he desperately desired to be home again, at the Davenport Homestead, with all of its rough charm and open honesty.

"You are the Mentor of the American Assassins, yes? Well, here it is – the perils of leadership!" Marat spread his arms wide and, mockingly, twirled before Connor, cackling, appearing as a ragged specter foretelling his doom. "Whenever there is a man with power, there are so many more that covet it – for good or ill, _oui,_ they covet it. Ever since the Rebellion of Adam and Eve, when we became aware of the power lorded over us, we have wanted it for our own. That is why I wanted you to come here today – to learn, to abide, and to keep the Assassin's Creed. That, not your _fledgling honor_, is how you survive the position. Oh, but don't you worry yourself, Connor. You are only a French _Novice,_ after all – we certainly cannot involve you _too_ much in this sort of scheming. Besides, it is tedious work, staging a coup; not the sort of party you'd be interested in. Run along, now – we will take care of everything. _Ça ira!"_

* * *

_Journée des brouettes: _(French) 'Wheelbarrow Day.' The demolition of the Bastille and the construction of the Altar to the Fatherland was done all by hand. Buncha lazy kids nowadays, with your bulldozers and your easy access…

_Sassenach: _(Scots Gaelic) 'Anglo-Saxon,' a derogative phrase used by the Scots for the English.

_Vive l'Amerique:_ (French) 'Long live America!' Heh, probably a rare saying in Paris, nowadays…

_Gustafs skål: _(Swedish) 'Toast to Gustaf,' a salutatory song to King Gustaf III of Sweden, who ended the parliamentary Age of Liberty in his country and became an autocrat.

_Le diable boiteux:_ (French) 'The lame devil,' a popular title for Talleyrand. I'm not sure when he received it, so I just slid it in there. His cameo shall be brief, sadly…

_Be'ezrat hashem: _(Hebrew) 'God willing.'

* * *

_Ah! The exposition! It burns! Ah… I think I just turned Connor into a naval fanboy. Should I be laughing, or screaming?_

_John Paul Jones – along with John Barry – is considered the Father of the United States Navy, and then went on to briefly serve Catherine II the Great in the Russian Imperial Navy. (He was also one of the first American citizens to be implicated in a sex scandal overseas, but that's another matter entirely~!)_

_Count Axel von Ferson of Sweden was known womanizer, and a court favorite of Marie Antoinette. He was also said to be the clandestine lover of the Queen. I'm not sure as to the validity of those rumors, but all of the Queen's children shared traits with that of the King._

_Robespierre had once kneeled before Louis in the rain – now he stood behind him out of the rain. We're makin' progress, people!_

_The Franco-Ottoman Alliance was formed by King Francis I and Sultan Suleiman the Magnificent to combat the growing power of Hapsburg Austria. In response, the Austrians allied with the Safavids of Persia, who frequently clashed with the Ottomans over territory in Mesopotamia. It never ends, does it?_

_The École des Cadets-gentilshommes accepted Napoleon Bonaparte back in 1784, who graduated a year early. He's not in this chapter, sadly, so here's Talleyrand for you! (Danger: Fragile! *kneeslap*)_

_The Montgolfier brothers performed the first manned ascent in recorded history (or Templar history, rather.) This feat was performed via a device called the 'globe aérostatique', the modern hot-air balloon, and was witnessed by Their Majesties and by Benjamin Franklin. I figure this contraption will make future appearances…_


	8. Day of Daggers

**And a happy Bastille Day, one and all! There were no mental asylums near my house, so we were free of angry Frenchman this year. Maybe next time! Is it August yet? No? Oh well, here's a preview, anyway.  
I was really tempted to skip this chapter, since there's not much information on the event itself – but 'something' happens here that profoundly influences Connor. At least, that's my intention.**

**firelordzuko:** Looked up Admiral Smith. You could probably write a story solely from his perspective!  
**East Coast Captain:** Thanks for the review!

**Chapter VII: Day of Daggers**

**"Nothing baffles the schemes of evil people so much as the calm composure of great souls."  
Honoré Gabriel Riquetti, comte de Mirabeau**

* * *

_Salle du Manège  
Paris, France  
11:30 a.m., 30 January, 1791_

At the beginning of 1791, Riquetti was made President of the Assembly, despite his deteriorating health. He stood in the Riding Hall, eyes squinting from inflamation, as he attempted to interpret his own speech before the Deputies of the Nation. His voice, that great mover of his career, was still intact, for the moment – his voice resonated in the cylindrical hall, and even the spectators above could hear every word of thanks he expressed for being chosen as President. Connor and Stephane watched from the balcony above – the red cap that Stephane had so proudly donned had now become more in vogue (for which Stephane had claimed a lot of credit, to Connor's chagrin.) Eventually, at a quarter to midday, Riquetti's thankful tirade thankfully ended, and they were all released from his spell. Connor made a move for the door, but Stephane clapped a hand on his shoulder and pointed down to the rostrum. Their Mentor had met their gaze and, pursing his lips, twitched his head towards the exit, urging them to follow. Stephane nodded and walked out through the door first, plodding down the stairs to the first floor. "I didn't think he'd even want to become President, what with his health and all. Although it might stimulate him a bit more, I suppose… Did you hear? It's rumored he's caught the Italian Disease." He chuckled.

"Really? I hear it's called the French Disease, in Italy. So he went to the Palais-Royal one too many times – that's hardly proof of any fixed disease." Connor was a bit more subdued when speaking to Stephane, nowadays – he had yet to tell him of his conversation with Marat, and the coup he had planned against Riquetti. Presumably, such affairs were on a 'need-to-know' basis, and Connor was not at all interested in making an enemy of Jean-Paul Marat.

During the noon adjournment, just after his swearing in, the two approached Riquetti in a side room of the Riding Hall – the new President of the National Assembly was leaning heavily against a desk, intently peering at his face in a mirror, hung up above a bowl squirming with leeches. The ci-devant comte de Mirabeau was busy applying the sucker of one such creature to the side of his left eye – at hand were piles of linens stained with blood. His eyes secreted yellow pus, and his eyelids had swollen tremendously. At his neck, just below his right ear, a great gland had sprouted. The rest of his neck was covered by a large swathe of linen cloth, stained with blood, pus, sweat, and other unmentionable liquids, turning the wrappings a nauseating shade of vermillion. "Ah, Connor, Stephane. Come to wish me congratulations, eh? Or condolences?" He chuckled darkly, affixing the leech to his temple.

"Our condolences, actually." Stephane began. "It won't be easy to lead those rascals – half of them probably want you dumped in the River Seine, as a matter of fact…"

"Well, I'll lead them as best as I am able. The office is a rotational one, after all!" Riquetti sighed. "Still, I am getting more tired, as of late…. I shan't enjoy the post, I don't think – but someone must hold it." Turning back to the mirror, he grabbed a glass of iced yellow liquid downed it in one gulp. Connor watched with some impending horror as the Mentor smacked his lips in distaste. Slamming it back down on the desk, he shuddered from the chill and, turning back to the two, he shrugged, saying, "Lemonade – doctor prescribed. I'm sure he made some mention about the positive effects of citrus, and how it's likely to stave off scurvy or some baser diseases, but I can't stand the stuff personally. Now, I have a mission for the two of you," Riquetti said, "We've discovered a secret entrance into the Tuileries: a subterranean passage leads out to the prison of Vincennes, in Saint-Antoine, just a stone's throw from the Bastille's foundations… From that prison, you and he will storm the palace and alert Their Majesties to your presence. Once that's done, they will flee Paris, and power will tip back to the monarchy for a time."

The name of the prison rung a bell in Stephane's mind. "Vicennes… Isn't that where you were imprisoned, Mentor?"

"Ah, you have found me out! This little enterprise of ours has the beneficial side-effect of inflicting my vengeance on the King for that minor error of his. Never fear, though, soon he shall be flushed out of the Tuileries."

Connor frowned. He remembered another Assassin mentioning an attack on Vincennes, lead by the same man Riquetti endorsed. He could not believe that the two plans were a coincidence. "Marat wants us to keep the King in the Tuileries, though…"

"Well, Marat and I certainly have differing managerial styles. However, you _will_ remember who it is that leads the Assassins, I hope? I've directed Colonel Santerre of the National Guard to lead the assault on Vincennes. He'll gather together a small mob – a good size, I think, about a thousand will do for him. Marat will want to take the King into custody – I want to set him free. Oh, and one more thing…" Riquetti turned from the mirror and gazed at the Assassins. Despite the silliness of his swollen red eyes framed by those horrid worms, they were still afflicted by a cold shudder. "You'll want to distract General Motier for a time as well. The National Guard was formed to stop such disruptions in the Capital – take them out of the equation, for now."

* * *

_National Guard Barracks  
Paris, France  
7:30 a.m., 28 February, 1791_

On the appointed day of the assault, Connor and Stephane met with General Gilbert du Motier in the courtyard of the _caserne_ of the National Guard. The two, tasked with stalling the good General, asked about the only relevant piece of news they could think of at the moment: their beloved Mentor, Riquetti. Remarkably, Lafayette had more than a few issues with the man. They were both mounted on horseback, at attention behind the General. From his snowy charger, in the midst of his morning review of the troops, he coldly told them, "Riquetti is a charlatan. If I cared to expose his schemes I could bring the sky around his is massively corrupt_. _He calls frequently on Their Majesties, applying for loans and submitting state papers. It is wonderful how the man's popularity survives_. _I might say it grows. It does, it grows! I offered him a place some embassy, to get out of France, but of course, he wanted more money. It's fortunate that he once said that he wouldn't have Louis-Philippe as his valet, let alone his King. Philippe is back from London, you know, and Riquetti practically runs the Assembly. If they should ally themselves…"

Suddenly, Connor noted a figure crouching against the roof of the surrounding courtyard – a slim figure, cloaked in white. Immediately, the figure fell towards Lafayette, but, in an instant, Connor reacted. Twitching his fingers, he unsheathed his Hidden Blade and, leaping from his saddle, he collided with the would-be Assassin, stabbing into his diaphragm. With a grunt, the two hit the ground, Connor rolling to absorb the shock of impact. He barely registered the General's horse rearing in surprise, whinnying distressfully as his master struggled to regain control of the beast. The Guardsmen surrounding them, at first half-drowsy in the morning air, were now on full alert, bayonets primed and ready for combat. Panting, Connor placed his hands on his knees and stood up – looking down, he saw that the assailant was dressed in garb similar to his own – white military jacket, a blue coat, but sans the hood. Instead, he had worn a red cap, and, pinned at the center, was a tricolor cockade – the makeshift symbols of the Revolution.

Gilbert was only a little shaken by this assault - he was not unused to combat. He was more alarmed by the speed of the attack, and its source. "Connor, what - who in Heaven's name was that?"

"He was a warning, Gilbert. It seems the Revolution still has a course to run."

_"Monseigneur! Monseigneur Lafayette!"_ A young man suddenly galloped into the barracks, bearing a royal rod in his hand, signifying him as a messenger – it was Jacques Chapeau. Stephane instantly blushed crimson nearly identical to his red cap. Gritting his teeth, he refused to answer his young, foolhardy cousin – to use such a deferential mode of address – and to the veteran of the Americas, no less! – was simply infuriating, and made his blood do more than boil over. He was only fortunate that they were alone.

Lafayette was of a similar train of thought. "It's General Motier_, monsieur,"_ corrected Gilbert. "What news from His Majesty?"

Jacques cried, "The Mob marches on Vincennes! They mean to massacre the prisoners! His Majesty has orders for you to rout them from the streets – and to take their leader, Santerre, prisoner."

"Santerre! That's the brewer from Saint-Antoine! This is a practical mutiny!" The General swung around in his saddle and dug his heels into the charger's flanks – with a whinny, his charger broke into a gallop, Lafayette sounding the alarm throughout the barracks for the National Guard to assemble immediately.

Connor looked at Stephane and said, urgently, "We must warn Santerre!"

* * *

_Vincennes Prison, St. Antoine  
Paris, France_  
_8:00 a.m_

By the time Connor and Stephane arrived at Vincennes, the portion of the outer wall had already fallen to the Revolutionaries. Originally a lavish _château,_ it had been fortified in at the dawn of the century and served as a state prison, more of a poor man's Bastille. This compound had once had the honor of housing the degenerate Marquis de Sade, the voracious Comte de Mirabeau, and the troublesome philosopher Diderot (though his cell, it was rumored, only had three walls.) Now, taking inspiration from the Bastille, and roused by Danton in the Cordeliers, the Mob of Paris descended on this lesser fortress, where, it was said, the _Ancién Regime _was preparing to house political prisoners, in opposition of the Crown. Indeed, the young Colonel Santerre had done well for himself so far, in this endeavor – a part of the outer parapets had been destroyed, and several dungeons had been cracked, either to free imprisoned Patriots of the Nation, or to slaughter ultra-conservative Lazarenes that, for their harsher condemnations of the Revolution, had been detained by the Crown. Now they received their just rewards early – above the dust smoke of the besieged prison, Connor could make out pikes waving in the air, their points thrust into the necks of the Royal guards.

Leading these twelve hundred miscreants was Colonel Santerre, who was peering at the carnage from afar through a telescope – his finger, like theirs, was branded. Santerre struck Connor as a rather dour man – he was self-made, if anyone could claim that particular attribute. The Colonel absolutely eschewed the _culottes_ of the aristocrats, wearing only tricolored pantaloons (which Connor fervently hoped would not catch on) and like Stephane, he wore the _bonnet rouge_ of the Revolution. He was a brewer, according to Marat, but he seemed to enjoy this task of bloodletting just as well. He grinned when he saw his two fellow Assassins trot up to him on horseback. _"Bienvenue, citoyens!_ You've certainly taken your time." He looked back into the telescope at the ruined gates. "From here, we will break our way through the underground and rouse the King from his bed, if all goes well. So, is the deed done? Is Lafayette dead?"

Stephane glanced and Connor discreetly, then said to Santerre, "… Lafayette lives. We were given no orders to _kill_ him… It would be best if you and your men quit the field before he arrives."

The Colonel frowned. Lowering his brass spyglass and folding it up, he said, "I do not understand – I was told that the former Marquis would be taken care of. If you are saying that you failed in this mission-"

"Col. Santerre! The National Guard is approaching!"

He cursed. Turning back to the people dismantling the prison, he cried, _"Retraite! Retraite, citoyens!" _With one last, baleful look at Stephane and Connor, Santerre slunk off to a horse, and, mounting it, galloped away through a side alley – just moments before a battalion of the National Guard arrived, horns blowing and drums crashing, their great General trotting in on his high horse and calling for the detainment of the Mob's ringleaders, to the jeers of the enraged Saint-Antoine workers conducting the siege.

"Connor, Stephane – I assume you could not persuade Santerre to turn himself in? Ah, well – we shall find him another day. We're not done yet – I fear he may have had some measure of success. The Tuileries has been invaded."

* * *

_Tuileries Palace  
Paris, France  
10:00 A.M_

"In the name of His Most Christian Majesty, Louis of House Bourbon, the Sixteenth of His Name, By the Grace of God and the Constitution, King of the French, I hereby place you in the custody of the courts! Turn over your weapons, or you will face the full brunt of the Law!"

Having announced their presence, General Gilbert du Motier, Connor, and Stephane strode into the Throne Room of the Tuileries Palace at the head of a battalion of National Guardsmen, who quickly diverted from the main door and began to line up beside the muted walls. However, it was no rowdy mob of _sans-culottes_ that had entered the King's throne room of the Tuileries was gleaming with bayonets as the National Guard filed into the room – in the center, petitioning the King, were several hundred Noblemen, all of them with gilded hats and shining buckles and coat of arms, each man among them decrying the injustices done on them and the King by the Revolution. Connor instantly recognized a more sinister aspect – every one of these men was armed; they all carried a sheathed poignard at their side, or else they held it aloft, waving threateningly and crying, _"Vive le roi! Vive le reine! Vive St. Denis! Vive St. Lazare!" Etcetera ad nauseam._ These men, fearing for the King's safety, had rushed to his side when they heard Vincennes was under siege. Every one of the noblemen, down to the last _vicomte_, had completely abandoned the Tricolor cockade – they instead wore the white cockade, and flew the _drapeau blanc._ They were barred from petitioning the Throne by twelve National Guardsmen – their bayonets were leveled threateningly, the men themselves all deadly silence and grim determination, set to guard Their Majesties by Lafayette himself._  
_  
And there sat the King, great and resplendent, right hand thrust nobly into his jacket, his left nervously crutching the arm of his throne, fingers tapping respectively in contemplation, brow furrowed as he took in the scene before him. There sat the Queen, angelic and vengeful, with a timorous Axel von Fersen at her side, appearing quite out of his element. There stood Louis Stanislas, the ungainly, yet dutiful Prince,ever faithful, and third in line to the throne. The former Comte de Provence appeared even more corpulent than his brother, the King himself, if that were possible – his cheeks were fuller, and his belt much tighter. Yet, he appeared calmer than His Majesty, much more composed under pressure. The absence of their youngest brother, the Comte d'Artois, was duly noted. Stanislas was speaking as they entered the room: "… do something with these nobles. No doubt Marat and his ilk will frame this as preparations for a war on Paris. Is there any way we can-?"

"If I may offer His Majesty a solution," boomed a voice from beside the throne, in defiance of the bristling multitudes. Prancing his way towards the mob trod an immaculately dressed nobleman, his plumed hat marking him as the _Premier Prince du Sang_, with polished shoes, glinting eyes, and a tricolor cockade pinned to his turquoise coat, an elaborate cane proceeding before him. Connor had only seen Louis-Philippe a few times before then, but the former Duc d'Orléans had given off a populist impression more than once – this was the man who had walked with the Third Estate; this was the man who had hosted the riots of the Palais-Royal; this was the man whose own son was a professed Jacobin. It was highly unlikely he would sympathize with the ragged counterrevolutionaries surrounding him. Indeed, he said, "These good and noble citizens – while admirable in their patriotism and loyalty to King and Country – have surely broken the law, have they not? To bring weapons into the palace of His Majesty, without order and without leave, sets a dangerous precedent. Any one of these men could be an Assassin, hiding amongst his enemies. And so they, by their utter devotion to you, may unwittingly bring about your destruction."

Lafayette glared at Philippe. He had sought proofs of the Duke's involvement in the October riots, and had subsequently driven him off to London. Philippe, however, simply met the General's gaze with a graceful smile, and his eyes darted to meet Connor's for a moment, before returning to the Throne.

"What you have us do, then, _Monsieur?"_ asked the Queen, sharply. Axel von Ferson leaned in closer to whisper in her ear, but she pushed him off, glaring suspiciously at Louis-Philippe. There was no love lost between the two, naturally – the former Duke was a long-time advocate of the Revolution, and had even been rumored to have led the charge on her quarters in Versailles (though, the image of Louis-Philippe hurtling through the gilded halls of the palace at the head of a gaggle of murderous _poissardes_ was still a bit _too_ comical to consider a reality – and indeed, Connor thought he, at least, would have recognized Philippe – the man was very distinctive.)

"One precedent may supplant another. There are too many here to imprison – and, thanks to the determination of the People, there is now no Bastille to keep them. I propose you send each and every one of these men into exile, so that they might not unduly bring harm to the King, or to his reputation, among the citizens of Paris."

One of the counterrevolutionaries cried out in defiance. _"Monseigneur_, this is outrageous! The only loyalty d'Orl_é_ans holds is to the Mob! Your Majesty must leave Paris, before it is too late!" More noise.

Eventually, General Motier called for silence. The King sighed and said, "I do not desire to part with any of my subjects, particularly those who have, for centuries, been my family's loyal bannermen. Yet, the Law is stringent – no weapons are allowed within the King's presence, nor in his House, except without leave. Worse, you have set the city on a course for civil war. By the authority granted me by God, and the Constitution of the French, I hereby expel each and every one among you." Furious, the Nobles cried out for justice, but Louis said, "I have made my decision! Since you will not abide by the Law of this Kingdom, then you have my permission to seek your fortunes elsewhere. General du Motier, please escort these gentlemen from the premises."

* * *

_Rue Chaussée-de-l'Antin, le Marais  
Paris, France  
27 March, 1791_

On 27 March, after drinking a glass of lemonade, the _ci-devant_ Comte de Mirabeau collapsed suddenly in great pain and was taken to his home in _le Marais._ Connor and Stephane immediately rushed to his side, eager to pay their respects to their superior and Mentor. Interred within his bed, he looked old, far older than his thirty-four years. (An age that Connor himself was not far from.) His pitted face was as pale as clay, which sweated from exertion and fever. His voice – that grand weapon, intimidating even the highest of rulers – was now reduced to a grating whisper. "So good of you gentlemen to arrive. I was wondering if I would lack entertainment for the evening."

"Stephane, would you give me some minutes alone with M. Riquetti?" Stephane opened his mouth to object, but was caught by Connor's stern look. Wherever they might be, America or France, Stephane was still Connor's pupil. He nodded his capped head and slunk from the bedroom. Connor turned towards the infirmed Assassin and sat on a chair by the sheets. He rubbed his hands together and sighed, leaning his elbows against his knees. This would be no pleasure-visit; there were questions that needed answering, and they were losing time, fast. "… You took money from the King."

"I did." There was no denial, no attempts to frame it any other way – a simple confirmation of the facts laid before him, at Death's door. _"_I advised him, too. But let it never be said that I was bribed, M. Connor – they may pay me, but they have not bought me. If someone would trust me, I wouldn't need to be so devious."

"Trust you? We _did_ trust you. You arranged for Anne's capture."

Riquetti's brow furrowed, his mind slowed by his affliction. "Mlle. Th_é_roigne… Did I? I suppose I did… Frankly, Connor, if I had to choose between her and the Queen, I would choose the Queen. A precedent had to be set, and she was certainly getting very… _inquisitive._ Have no fear, I've every confidence she'll get off, light as rain! That's not to say I approve of Her Majesty. I am not a royalist; I regard myself as an unofficial minister, being paid for services to the government. Even now, I still cling to my ideals. I have only ever tried to bridge the gap between the King and his most pernicious subject, the Revolution. There ought to be a balance between them, as was intended by the attack on Vincennes. But it was all quite for naught, really; the King has not fled Paris, nor is he fully imprisoned. We are at a stalemate, Marat and I – _status quo_ _ante bellum,_ as it were."

"And what of your services to the Bourbons? Do they mean to regain power?"

"They do, but they do not want to pay the price. They ignore my advice, my honest, considered, well-meant advice; I want to save them, and I am the only man who can do it. They think they can ignore all common sense, common humanity. The time has got all used up, Connor. At least Philippe has some sense to him – but then, he is a man of reality. The rest of them have been showcased all their lives; their very existence is a play doomed to failure, and now they are a caged show, they beat against the walls, begging for release."

"So, you support d'Orl_é_ans' claim to the Throne?"

"Only at the uttermost end – which, I am happy to say, we have not quite reached... There might be some hope for the Bourbons yet; but if there is any, my eyes have gone too clouded to see it…" Riquetti sighed. "I go wearing mourning for the monarchy," he quipped on his deathbed: witty, politically astute, and, in his own rough way, an admirable human being to the last.

Connor nodded, and stood. Turning to go, he hesitated on the threshold, his eyes piercing the bedridden schemer. "One last thing, _Monsieur_ – did you order the assassination of Lafayette?"

"Lafayette? Why would I want him dead? He's got a monopoly on the army, true, but if anyone can defend the King, it is him. You did well, in defending him, you know… you and Stephane. If only Lafayette weren't so particular about _which_ King he defended… Now, leave me. Death is overeager to claim me, and I ought to oblige Him. I am a public servant, after all…"

* * *

_Paris, France_  
_8:30 a.m., 2 April, 1791  
_  
Riquetti, the great orator and _maître_ of the National Assembly, died in a coma on 2 April early in the morning, at the age of forty-two. The news spread like wildfire – the heroic leader of the Third Estate, the champion of the workers, was dead. The Torch of Provence had been snuffed, and by nightfall, Paris was now infamous Parisian Mob suspected treachery, poison, or assassination – they went through the newer traditions of the Revolution; they broke into shops, they harassed guards and policemen, they hunted nobles, and they castigated priests. Lafayette and the National Guard quickly restored order, but the damage had been done. The city was now more divided than ever. (Connor could only hope that they never learned the truth – that one of the People's greatest Friends had done away with another, simply for being too lenient on the House of Bourbon.)

The next day, the Assembly met as usual. It was a very somber affair – all were grief stricken and painfully conscious of the man's absence. Comically, Mirabeau's empty chair was draped in black clothes, in honor of their most fiery member. Connor and Stephane watched from above as a delegation received the floor, requesting that the ashes of the Nation's greatest men be laid to rest beneath the same vaunted roof – the dome of the recently completed Church of Saint-Genevi_èv_e, and that Honore Gabriel Riquetti, _ci-devant_ Comte de Mirabeau, be the first Revolutionary to be honored in this way, opening the door for such patriots as Voltaire, Rosseau, and Diderot. One of the deputies moved to refer this proposal to the Committee tasked with drafting the Constitution of the French.

At this, one man stood. Gaining the floor, Maximilien Robespierre, the 'Candle of Arras', said, "Citizens and Deputies of the Kingdom of the French, I – and the great majority of you – have had our own disagreements with M. Riquetti, before his tragic, untimely passing, but there was never any doubt to his patriotism, his loyalty, nor to his courage. I urge this Assembly to recognize the claim of one who opposed despotism with all his might at the most critical moments. This deputy – there, to the left – suggests that we should not consider Riquetti worthy of being house in this church. I _demand_ an _immediate_ vote on whether or not he was a great man!" Silence met Robespierre's sudden ferocity. He paused a moment, to regain his composure. "This man dared to lead the Third Estate to Versailles. He dared to challenge the King. He dared to take the first oath for the Constitution. He dared to strike the first brick from the Bastille. He dared to campaign for abolition, for suffrage, for liberty, equality, and fraternity, within the very Halls of Despotism itself! This man, this… patriot deserves every honor this Nation can afford to give him. We owe that much, at least – for he gave us everything."

The Assembly broke out into applause, and more – they gave the young lawyer from Arras a standing ovation. Robespierre, mollified, adjusted his spectacles a bit and, giving another one of his slight smiles, nodded his head in thanks to the President and slunk off from the speaker's rostrum. Connor had a feeling that Robespierre had set a precedent for the next few weeks – namely, singing the praises of Mirabeau, the man who would have sold them all if it would settle his perhaps they took more solace in that he was finally gone - Robespierre, P_é_tion, and others who had dwindled into insignificance before him could very soon become great men.

* * *

_The Panthéon  
Paris, France  
4 April, 1791_

Although there had been plans to turn the neoclassical Church of Sainte-Genevi_è_ve into a national mausoleum predated the French Revolution, but now it was approved by a subcommittee of the National Assembly – and so the church became the Panth_é_on. A public day of morning was declared for the Nation, and a sumptuous funeral was held on the evening of the 4th of April that brought all of Paris to a standstill. The procession began from Notre Dame de Paris, and ran the league-long rout to the final resting place of the Nation's Patriots. The haunting bells of Notre Dame rang out to begin the affair – a hundred thousand mourners partook in the funeral, who escorted the casket along its route, with a suitable wailing and gnashing of teeth. Gilbert du Motier lead battalions of the National Guard to bear the cadaver, the Tricolor hanging limply from its posts, morose at the passing of its greatest champion. Behind them came all twelve-hundred or so of his colleagues from the National Assembly. After came the Jacobins, His Majesty's ministers, journalists, and saddened members of the public all accompanied the grand orator's remains – a heart inside a leaden urn – to his final resting place. The new Panth_é_on of the Constitutional Kingdom of the French had been built on a hill on the Left Bank of the River Seine, in the Latin Quarter. Obviously modeled after the Pantheon of Rome, its façade was guarded by great Corinthian columns, topped by a grand, neoclassical pediment. An inscription was hastily carved into the Roman pediment, which read:_ "AUX GRANDS HOMMES LA PATRIE RECONNAISSANTE."_Aside from the entrance, however, it was a normal Catholic church. A rectangular vestibule linked the outer porch to the inner rotunda, where, amidst the solemn gathering of his greatest friends, enemies, and followers, the Comte de Mirabeau was laid to rest. There were solemn speeches, there was mournful music, lasting well into the night.

Riquetti was placed within one of the inner naves of the masoleum, framed by neoclassical mosaics featuring long forgotten scenes of antiquity. When the last epitaph was read, the final eulogy expelled, his enemies having completed their praises of the deceased, there were only two men standing before the inscribed marble tomb of the Comte de Mirabeau: Connor, and Jean-Paul Marat. The two met each other's gazes coolly. Marat began: "Ah, what a fine display! Did you know, he had put it in his will that he wanted his body to arrive to the procession on hot air balloon? The man was always a dramatist. No doubt, he's already preaching at Saint Peter's gates."

Connor was fairly sure that was only a _slight_ exaggeration, on Marat's part. The doctor looked back at the tomb, with a calculating look on his face. Connor, immediately, sensing duplicity, asked, "What are you planning now?"

Marat grinned at Connor – a bad omen, if ever there was one. "Oh, just wondering if any more souls will fill this building… They've already got slots for Diderot and the Twins – you're acquainted with their works, by now? I do hope they leave space for some up and coming patriots, some more deserving of their praise-"

That was one way to discern that Marat was no politician – he incinerated his enemies, living or dead. Connor pursed his lips. "Mirabeau did his best – but I can't help but feel you Frenchmen have only had diseased members, as of late…"

Marat's face hardened. "I received my disease my being a Friend to the People. Riquetti got his by whoring himself out in Philippe's den of chicanery. Yes, I know about _their_ plots as well. And I've circulated the information." He reached within his jacket and pulled out a newspaper article. "Here – thought this would interest you."

Connor glanced skeptically at the paper, then grabbed it and opened the page. He skimmed for a moment and uttered, "'…._Go then, witless people, and prostrate yourself before the tomb of this god of orators, liars, and thieves.' _The Lanterne Attorney is in full force, I see. He, of all people, would know the most about Riquetti's faults. Didn't Mirabeau employ him, early on?"

"Oh yes, but he employed us too, remember. Business is a harsh environment for fondness, Connor. Ah, but Desmoulins is a breath of fresh air!_ 'Qui male agit odit lucem,' _as it were."

"Yes, you loved the light so dearly, you put it out." The Assassin frowned. "Just what did you put in his drinks, anyway?"

"Ah, you've hit the underlying matter, M. Connor. Poor Riquetti… he had no idea of the inner workings of physicians, and our prescriptions. I had heard arsenic was a good cure-all for the man, and suggested it to some of my colleagues. Perhaps it just didn't take." He smiled mockingly at his superior's tomb. "Now, the Assassins of Paris can be led by a man with their best interests at heart. I've great things planned for this city, great things…"

"If it includes more of your 'vigilance,' then I want no part in it…" Then, Connor realized something. Only two of the Brotherhood's leadership had ordered the attack on Vincennes – and only one had ordered the attack leading up to it. "It was you who ordered Lafayette's assassination, was it not?"

_"Oui,_ him too. The man is an obstacle to liberty. And was it you, or Stephane who saved him? No, don't answer," He said abruptly, "It doesn't matter, you both yip at his heels, begging for food and shelter, whilst the rest of this poor city rots. It's just as Mlle. Th_ér_oigne said – you're too fond of Lafayette. You have spared the Hero of the Two Worlds. You have doomed the City of Paris. There may come a day, M. Connor, when you and M. Chapheau come to greatly regret this decision. And on that day, I will be your only friend. For I am the People's Friend, no matter how misguided they are. But now, to other business. We must find a new Mentor, soon. I like the feel of 'Mentor Marat'... Yes, that sounds very palatable, does it not?"

* * *

_Caserne:_ (French) 'Barracks.'

_Monseigneur:_ (French) 'My lord,' (Msgr./Mgr.)

_Prince du Sang:_(French)'Prince of the Blood', a person legitimately descended from Hugh Capet via the male line. Louis-Phillipe was 'First Prince of the Blood', the most senior male member of the Bourbon dynasty, after the immediate family of the King.

_Maître:_ (French) 'Master.'

_Aux grands hommes la patrie reconnaisante: _(French) 'To the great men, the grateful homeland.'

_Qui male agit odit lucem:_ (Latin) 'He who does evil hates the light,' John 3:20 – an epigraph used by Camille Desmoulins to call for the hanging of aristocrats from Parisian lanterns.

* * *

_Bunch of running around in this chapter – but the 28__th__ of February was an eventful day, in my defense. Marat always has to get that last word, doesn't he…?_

_So passes Mirabeau, son of Mirabeau. Survived by his brother, "Barrel" Mirabeau. (I'm not even making that up!) He was the first person to be buried in the Pantheon – but he was disinterred in 1794, and his tomb occupied by Marat. Mirabeau was buried anonymously in Clamart's graveyard, and his remains… remain hidden to this day. (Marat was also disinterred, later on, but let's not get ahead of ourselves…_

_The Italian Disease… was syphilis, really. Although it was only ever called that in France – elsewhere, it was just the French Disease. Leeches were used to rid the body of 'bad blood', one of the Four Humors If you had too much of one humor, you had to get rid of it – and, since humans have a lot of blood, leeches were a common prescription in those days I've also read that Mirabeau used to drink lemonade as a cure for his symptoms. (As a side note, another cure for syphilis was arsenic. Wouldn't be hard to overdose on that, really…)_

_There's not too much information on the Day of Daggers, so I just had to do a lot of this myself. Shocking, I know! Although, for some reason, I was able to find the exact time of day these events occurred. Weird…_

_I shall praise the name of Diderot from now until the end of time! This great man was on par with philosophers like Rousseau, Voltaire, etc etc - but he also dreamt up the concept of the 'fourth wall'. He's been denied interment in the Pantheon since his death in 1784, but the French Government is supposed to move his remains there this year, on the 300__th anniversary of his birth (October 5th, by the way.)_

_I just made that Jacques OC a messenger for one scene. Wee. Also, more plotting from d'Oréans! I fear Paris will be rather short on Royalists, now…_

_Next chapter: Flight to Varennes! Be sure to comment and critique! But mostly critique. That's the only way this mess will get any better!_


	9. Flight to Varennes

**We just passed 10 August (a day that shall live in infamy); my birthday was the 12****th**** (a day that shall live in mediocrity). Anyway, college is starting up in a week, so this may be the last chapter for a while. ****_C'est la vie!  
_****You might be familiar with the Bourbons' anthem – it's the inspiration for the Apotheosis of Sleeping Beauty by Tchaikovsky.**  
**  
Chapter VIII: Flight to Varennes**

**_"Gentlemen, the King has fled in the Night. Let us proceed to the Order of the Day."  
~ Alexandre de Beauhamais, President of the Assembly_**

* * *

_Cour de Miracles, Rue Reaumur  
Paris, France  
9:00p.m., Sunday, 17 April, 1791_

Palm Sunday. Mentor Marat now reigned from the Court of Miracles. It was a mystery to Connor as to how exactly one was elected Mentor, though Stephane had joked that no one had been able to best Marat in a staring contest. He was a small man, by nature, and where Mirabeau had dwarfed the Mentor's desk in the Court of Miracles, Marat's slim frame seemed to fit the desk almost perfectly – both literally and figuratively. His ascension as Mentor was hardly contested: Santerre was better equipped to manage their martial divisions, and had pledged his full support to Marat; Madame Berr, though obviously a deep reservoir of wisdom, was barred from Mentorship as she was already head of the _Nokmim; _and Anne Théroigne … well, she was still paying the price of Mirabeau's treachery – as soon as Marat and become Mentor of Paris, he had told Connor that Mirabeau's records indicated that she was likely being held in some Alpine castle near Kufstein, Austria, still being interrogated for information about the Revolutionary leaders in Paris, and her suspected plot against the Sheperdess, Marie Antoinette. "_The coils of the Emperor are strong, Connor,"_ Marat had told him, _"and Leopold will only let the lady go once all information has been squeezed from her. For her sake, you had better hope she is a dullard."_

So, as events stood, Marat became Mentor and devoted his time to extricating the Belgian from Austria - as well as attend to national matters. Very soon thereafter, the National Guard was instructed to increase their watch on the Royal Family. One man from the Cordeliers Battalion, Georges-Jacques Danton, had come to report to Marat. He was just closing the door to the Mentor's office when he spied two Assassins loitering nearby. "Ah, Connor! Stephane!" As the Communard marched up to them, Connor was again stricken by his appearance – wide face, wide shoulders, wide stance; the man was practically a walking fortress! And then there was that scarred lip of his… for whatever reason, Connor felt that was significant, but he could not for the life of him figure out why. That must be an instance of what the French called _déjà vu._ Danton reached out and slapped Connor on the back (nearly bringing him to the ground,) saying, "What brings you here at this hour?"

"Oh, uh, we were just waiting on Marat. Were you the one occupying him, Danton?" Connor was still a little breathless after Danton's 'affectionate' gesture – out of the corner of his eye, he could see Stephane biting his lip to keep from chuckling. Shooting the barkeep a glare, Connor returned his attention to the towering orator. Danton had been instrumental during the Storming of the Bastille (though he had been absent at the conflict itself), but had not been very prominent as of late. Now, with Riquetti gone, he, like many other men, was suddenly thrust into the limelight after the old Torch faded. The Poor Man's Mirabeau was now simply known as Danton.

"Yes, I'm afraid he's printing up a storm in there – wasn't too fond of Mirabeau, was he? I had a certain fondness for the man, myself – not just because of our similarities. But then, everyone was compared to Mirabeau, really – Robespierre, Pétion, d'Orléans… He just had that sort of omnipresence, you know?"

"We never could get him off our tails, as hard as we tried…" Stephane, still smiling beneath his goatee, said, "Well, we had best see what that toad Marat wants. It was a pleasure, as always, Georges! We must catch up at the Defarges', later," he said, and, briskly shaking hands with the Communard, he entered the threshold of the Mentor.

Connor, however, hesitated and peered up at the broad man. "Danton – how did you get that scar? On your lip, there?"

He laughed. "Heh, looks more like a second mouth, don't it? Well, I was raised on a farm – cattle. Doesn't take much else to scry its origin, eh?" Danton grinned, stretching the gash to hideous lengths. Giving the Assassin a lazy wave, he left in the direction of the Palais-Royal, a peculiar dastardly spring in his step, amicably chatting with every one of the beggars and malcontents he passed by on the road, humming _"Ça ira"_ as he went. Connor eyed the brute suspiciously before following Stephane. He was already standing before Marat's cluttered desk, _bonnet rouge_ doffed respectfully – Marat was scribbling furiously on a sheet of paper, no doubt preparing for next week's _L'Ami du Peuple._

"M. Connor! _Happy_ Palm Sunday! Lent is almost over – and I'm sure the King is very grateful for that; soon he can return to his stuffed pheasants in peace. Stephane here was just lamenting his own fast from that infamous _rosbif _of yours…_"_ Marat laid down his quill and steepled his ink-stained hands together, adopting a more solemn air. "Now, to business. You saw Danton out, I'm sure; we will soon be getting either a new recruit or a powerful ally. In either case, he's just brought some troubling news from his National Guard contacts at the Tuileries. Just this morning, a refractory priest – a Jesuit! – said Mass in the TuileriesPalace. Not only that, the King has decided to take communion from him at Saint-Cloud. I don't think I need to tell you the significance of this act –"

"I'm afraid you must." Connor spoke from his spot by the bookshelf. "If you mean to keep him from going, then I must protest against it. This sounds a little like religious intolerance – which, of course, would be illegal under the new Constitution. He should listen to whatever priest he likes, wherever. He does, after all, have a soul to save – how does this affect the Nation?"

"How _provincial_ of you. That might stand back in _l'Amerique,_ but here, the King is God's anointed ruler. Well, we won't have it," Marat said. "Not I, nor Danton, nor Paris. The King has accepted the Civil Constitution of the Clergy. It has his signature, seal, and stench. If he cheats, there will be reprisals. A juring priest, or no priest, for the King. And it must be done here; the King must not leave Paris."_  
_  
"I do not understand. They went to Saint-Cloud last year-"

"And there, they made plans with Mirabeau: plans to abduct an active Assassin, plans to impoverish the city, plans to suppress the populace… Whom shall they convene with next, do you think? We cannot have them leave Paris for Saint-Cloud; nor Saint-Cloud for the border, where they can put themselves at the head of the_ émigrés."_

"Is that his intent?"

"I have divined it; his youngest brother, the Comte d'Artois, is still holding the position for him in Savoy – so I do think it likely."

"Well, as I said: I want no part in it."

_"Quelle horreur!_ However will we manage without your support, Connor?" Marat sneered at the Assassin. "Save your breath; you are not even _half_ as important as you think you are. We have survived for a thousand years before you two came, and I daresay we shall fare quite well after you are dead, and _rotting_ in the ground. Paris will become my instrument – and her part will be grand and beautiful. I can foresee tomorrow's events; Lafayette will try to declare martial law; Danton and the Commune will deny him, and the King will remain where he ought to: at home. Speaking of which, you're both dismissed; make yourselves scarce, and be quick about it."

* * *

_Tuileries Garden  
Paris, France  
11:30a.m., Monday, 18 April, 1791 _

_"It is all up with liberty, it is all up with the country, if we suffer the royal family to quit the Tuileries." ~ L'Ami du Peuple, J.P. Marat, editor_

Holy Monday – the Cleansing of the Temple_._ By early morning, every town crier was brandishing a copy of L'Ami du Peuple, echoing the Mentor's call for a march on the Tuileries Palace. Marat had done his work well; the day that the Bourbons had prepared to leave the capital for their summer chateau at Saint-Cloud, the Mob appeared; at close to noon, citizens from the Cordeliers and the Saint-Antoine districts rallied to the Tricolor and blocked every possible exit from the Tuileries Gardens – they surrounded the Royal coach in a semicircle, hemming in the besieged. The _poissardes_ shrieked in consternation, rattling cleavers and rolling pins, pikes looming ominously from their rear lines, and the tocsin was rung by men from the Cordeliers. They were held back by the Cordeliers Battalion of the National Guard – a rather poor choice, given their commander's predispositions. The King, Queen, Dauphin, and princess had been allowed to enter the coach, and there they stayed. Lafayette, astride his white charger, relayed orders, and was ignored. The National Guard would not allow the gates to be Mob would not allow the carriage to proceed. The National Guard would not disperse the crowd. CaptainDanton looked particularly smug, his battered face showing no signs of cooperation, and he bounced on his heels asthe "_Ça ira_" was sung, with horrifying new lyrics:

_Ah ! ça ira, ça ira, ça ira,  
Les aristocrates à la lanterne!  
Ah ! ça ira, ça ira, ça ira,  
les aristocrates on les pendra!_

"Remind me to strangle Desmoulins when we next meet," Connor told Stephane, who only sighed and shook his head in disgust at the whole sordid affair. Thankfully, there were few lanternes on hand (though there were quite a few impromptu nooses manufactured).Eventually, oneman in court dress climbed down from the spare carriage and tried to run to the King's. Someone raised a ragged stick to beat him back. The Dauphin cried out in shock within his father's carriage, but the staff came down and down relentlessly – blood spattered from the blows, staining the pale stones of the RoyalGardens. The Dauphin burst into tears at the plight of the First Gentleman of the Bedchamber. Last year, or even the one before, this may have roused the National Guard to act in defense of His Highness' servant – but now, they stayed put, neither aiding the Mob, nor defending the Bourbons. The General was enraged, and, swearing at his men, trotted up and down their ranks, ordering them to push back the crowds and open the gates for Their Majesties. Quivering with fury, he lambasted them, swearing by every force of nature that he would have their stripes for this insubordination, this grand mutiny. His charger, restive, twitched in apprehension and shifted in its path, hooves clattering on the tiles, its great eyes rolling in fear as its master continued to urge his men forward. Connor had never before witnessed the former Marquis in such a fury, not even in America. Mayor Bailly called for order, appealing to the common good of the crowd, and telling them to go home, but he was shouted down – the head of the Third Estate, the first President of the National Assembly, was silenced by his own constituents. Within the carriage, the royal couple clasped hands and gazed into each other's face.

_"Vive la Nation! Vive l'Assemblee Nationale!"_

_"Don't bother with those nooses – His Lardness would probably break the lanterne anyway!"_

Gilbert du Motier was seen to be arguing with Mayor Bailly. From what Marat had told Connor, it was likely that the General was still hoping for Bailly to declare martial law, despite the emergency meeting of the Paris Commune the day before, where he had been overruled by Danton and the pacifists. The Mayor remained unmoved, even now. There would be no violence to induce the People to leave the Tuileries. Now, patience was required. An hour and three-quarters, at 1:15 p.m., and Their Majesties had had enough. They exited the carriage, as dignified as they could, ignoring the jeers and lewd insults of the crowd; Louis glumly thrust his right hand into his jacket, leading the Dauphin by the other. At General du Motier's urging, the National Guard – finally- reacted, opening the grand entrance to the Palace, and to safety. As they re-entered the Tuileries, the Queen turned to speak to Lafayette above the calls of the mob. "At least you must admit that _we_ are no longer free, _Monsieur."_

* * *

_Les Cordeliers  
Paris, France  
3:00 a.m., 20 June, 1791_

Two months passed before the tocsin was again rung from the Cordeliers. Connor and Stephane had been assigned to patrol the district that night, when the bells began to awaken Paris from her slumber. Eventually, they both decided to call in on Marat. However, just as they made to approach his new printing press in the Cordeliers, Marat pounced on them from a side alley. "Connor, Stephane; they've gone in the night. The entire _damned_ House of Capet: The King, his wife, his brother, the Dauphin, the whole bloody bunch."

Connor's eyes snapped open in shock. "Wha- really? This evening?"

The doctor nodded furiously, smiling ominously. "Lafayette was in charge of security. Either he's sold out to the Court, betrayed us, or he's an incompetent dolt. You must now admit to the facts, _Monsieurs_ – your friend is simply _not_ in France's best interests." He walked off triumphantly, and the two Assassins were obliged to hurry up after him to match his pace.

Connor bit his lip to keep from snapping at Marat – instead, he asked, "Do you have any orders for us, _Mentor?"_

"Well you, Connor, will retrieve 'Their Majesties'- I believe you are already acquainted with Louis Capet, yourself. Stephane, you will reclaim Stanislas Capet."

Stephane furrowed his brow in thought. "The King's brother… the Comte de Provence? He's fled from the Luxembourg?" The LuxembourgPalace was just across the river from the Tuileries; after the October Days, it had been given to Provence by the King to dwell in. It was now, apparently, empty.

"Yes, yes; he could have gone consecutively with the King, or perhaps he fled afterwards in this rabble. However the case, they've gone in separate directions – the King to the east, the Comte to the north. Stephane, you will reclaim Stanislas – I hear it told that one of your cousins is personally escorting him, along with his gentleman-at-arms – Rochejaquelein, I believe?" The name apparently meant something to Stephane – his jaw clenched, and eyes were ignited. "Now, it is paramount that you not kill the King; rough him up, maybe, but bring him back for questioning. Kill Stanislas if you like, Stephane, no one will miss him too greatly."

Chapheau sighed and asked indignantly, "So, how will we go after them? Coach? Horses?"

"You've no time for horses, M. Stephane! None can be spared. Oddly, however, we _do_ have these …" Marat trailed off in his explanation, then turned a corner and disappeared – the two Assassins followed him, but stopped in their paths – there, in the Champ de Mars_,_ their tricolored envelopes being blown up by great pillars of fire, was a pair of _globes aérostatique_. A small crowd, roused by the news of their monarch's latest bid for freedom, had begun to congregate around the hot air balloons. Connor and Stephane gaped for a moment, before composing themselves - Marat stood before them, and, theatrically, turned back to them and pointed to the balloons, saying, _"_You two will fetch them back _à l'Auditore._ _Les Montgolfiers _will be operating the devices, and you should be able to beat the _aristos_ to the border in not time at all! How's that for transportation, eh?"

Stephane blinked rapidly, still trying to comprehend this new development. Eventually, he settled on a singular query. "… You didn't pay for this, did you? How did you get them to loan you their balloons?"

"Oh, I just ran a few… _dozen_ page-length ads in _L'Ami._ That's the free market for you." The journalist shrugged. "Now, there's no time to waste – you had best be after them before sunrise, and the whole city comes to gape at these things with us. _Allez! Tout de suite!"_

* * *

_Clermont, Meuse_

_Lorraine, France_

_10:30 p.m., 21 June, 1791_

The road to Belgium ran along the River Aire, adjacent the Forest of Argonne; a long strip of rocky mountains formed by steep-sloped cuestas, their jagged escarpments thrusting into the night sky, and wild woodlands in northeastern France. These were intersected by lesser rivers flowing north into the English Channel – the Moselle, the Meurthe, the Meuse… As Connor observed the Montgolfier working the burner, he was informed of how the device worked – warm air naturally rises in cool air, and so the air within the balloon's envelope was heated tremendously in order for it to lift from the ground. This was done by opening a propane valve that allowed the gas to flow into the burner and mixing with air, igniting the flame and sending them skyward. Several times the basket dipped lower towards the earth, but then the burner would flare, deafening the two with its snapping, and they would ascend once again into the heavens above the clouds. "And the hot air won't escape from the bottom?!"

_"Non, monsieur_ – again, hot air rises, so it will not go down to escape the envelope!"

Connor could barely hear anything over the rush of the air and the crackling of the flame, but he asked, "This actually looks quite simple… Could I try?!"

The pilot looked ahead into the distance, and seeing not curves in the road, nodded and cried, "Certainly, _monsieur,_ if it helps you with future solo-missions! We should have a straight shot for a while yet!" The Assassin was given operation of the burner valve and he simply increased the furor of the flames as gravity inevitable pulled at the gondola. As they passed by, Connor noted little villages here and there on the road to the Austrian border – this was certainly the longer and more populated of the two routes the King could have chosen, so why this one? Perhaps he had feared to be recognized in Reims, the site of his coronation? But he would doubtless be recognized before the night was through, if he hadn't been already – the King of the French was hardly an obscure figure.

Eventually, however, they soon came upon a bend in the road below them. "Port to starboard," ordered Connor. He was absolutely clueless as on how to change direction, so he quickly yielded the burner to Joseph.

The pilot nodded and he pulled on a long cord that trailed down from the envelope of the balloon, opening a valve at the top. The hot air began to gush out of the envelope, and the balloon descended towards the wood below. They descended to a lower altitude, until finally, they caught a new wind – the balloon rode with the wind to the right, directly above the road. "The wind blows in different directions at different altitudes, M. Connor," said Joseph, "simply ascend or descend until you find a direction you like, and continue the cruise."

Connor could now see the grand carriage from on high – a Berlin carriage, he thought. (The word 'Brandenburg' floated in from the back of his mind, but he disregarded it.) The golden guards did nothing to blend it into its surroundings. The body was painted black and green, the perch under the carriage and the wheels the customary yellow. Still, it was swifter than he thought it would. It must have been made especially for this journey. Connor strained his eyes and activated the Eagle Vision – it was a curious ability inherited only by specific lineages, and one he had honed early on with instruction from Achilles. The entire surrounding world fell away, and he focused on the coach beneath. It had a good-sized escort, worthy of note, at least – they shone red through the canopy. But he was more interested in the coach itself – within were four golden auras, huddled together for comfort. He blinked and relaxed his eyes, returning to his normal vision – the night was still dark.

"Take us lower! I'll go and see if I can pick off some of the guards! You fly on to the closest village on the path – you must get there before the coach!" Jacques-Étienne Montgolfier nodded and returned to his work. With one last _"Bon voyage, monsieur,"_ Connor performed a Leap of Faith from the gondola of the hot air balloon and landed into the canopy below, colliding with branches and twigs, tearing through the leaves reaching up to embrace him, snatching hold of the greater limbs and leaping down towards the lower branches. Reaching behind him, he grabbed his bow and unslung an arrow from his waist pouch. Still leaping from tree to tree, diligently following the coach on its path, he raised the bow and took aim at one of the shining yellow-liveried Lazarenes escorting Their Majesties on horseback. He released the arrow and continued onward, swinging towards another tree, an evergreen, as the arrow hummed through the air and imbedded itself into the chest of a Lazarene - who cried out in shock below him and fell from his saddle with a sickening crunch, his pike burying itself in the gravel road. The coach increased its speed – Louis was now alerted to Connor's presence in the forest, and the Lazarenes broke into a trot, in order to keep pace with their charge.

One of the Knights cried out, "Charette!" Another Knight – one with furious sideburns sweeping out from a wide-brimmed hat – reached for a loaded musket laid across his saddle and aimed into the trees. Connor quickly made to dodge the oncoming bullet, but it succeeded in grazing his calf. He hissed in pain, and slipped from the bough of the evergreen, but he grit his teeth and grabbed onto a lower limb, pulling himself up and returning to his work of dismantling the Royal escort. He drew another arrow and fired it at the man called Charette – however, it only hit his horse, which immediately buckled and collapsed into the dust, bringing the man with it. As the carriage raced past him, Charette cried, _"Vive le roi! Vive la reine!"_ Another Knight was felled by a similar arrow, being shot through the shoulder, and he plummeted to the road, his horse now fleeing in terror.

Connor was becoming weary of this cat-and-mouse game – he could not simply attack his target; Marat had only told him to bring back their wayward King. Exasperated, he called out to him: _"Louis Capet, Seizième Du Nom!"_ His Majesty made no answer, and so another arrow was fired, and so another Knight fell. One of the carriage's wheels drove into a pit and it seized violently, ricocheting off the road before falling back to the earth. The carriage raced on. If the chase had not alerted any of the local populace before, the gunshots certainly had – even now, Connor could hear the distant ring of municipal bells and emergency tocsins up ahead as the local militia was roused from its slumber. In the distance, he could see torches mounted on the walls of a village gate – a sign designated the place's name as 'Varennes'.

* * *

_Reims, Marne  
__Champagne-Ardenne, France  
__10:30 p.m., 21 June, 1791_

The mighty SeineRiver flowed west from Champagne-Ardenne, accompanied by the Marne and the Aisne. Soon, Stephane's balloon approached the ancient city of Reims, just northeast of Paris; as they soared above the city walls, he could make out a wide triumphal arch, the Porte Mars, constructed by the Romans in the Common Era. Reims had played a prominent ceremonial role during the _Ancien Régime;_ since the reign of Clovis, it had served as the traditional crowning site of the Kings of France. Louis XVI himself had been crowned in its cathedral, the blessed Notre-Dame de Reims, only fifteen years before. Now, Stephane gave this grand city a passing glance from above – then, as they cleared the city walls, he returned his eyes to the road. Up ahead, hidden beneath a thicket of trees, was a carriage escorted by a dozen or so Knights of St. Lazarus, clad in darkened garb, practically racing towards the border with the Austrian Netherlands. "M. Montgolfier, bring us a tad lower, if you would be so kind!"

The other Montgolfier acquiesced, opening the valve to release the air, and the gondola began to descend. A few feet above the canopy, Stephane yelled, "Stop," and the valve closed again. Then, he grasped a loaded musket Joseph Montgolfier had brought and positioned the butt on his shoulder, aiming the bayonet for one of the Lazarenes through the trees. A crack, a puff of smoke, a flash of light, and the sulfuric smell of gunpowder – through the sights, Stephane saw the man topple from his mount, into the pavement. Laying aside the musket, the Assassin reached for a pistol slung on his belt, but he saw that the speed of the carriage had begun to increase; the Comte knew he was being hunted. What's more, it had now entered into a denser portion of the forest: he could barely see the coach along its flight. "It's no good; I can't get another shot!"

"You're welcome to attempt a Leap, M. Chapheau! The canopy should provide some cushioning on your descent, but…"

Stephane snorted and gripped the rim of the basket, and, pulling himself over the side, performed a Leap of Faith from the hot air balloon and landed into the trees below – twigs and limbs stabbing and scraping his skin. Cursing, he quickly leapt for another Knight below him, drawing his Hidden Blade – making contact, he stabbed the man through the throat, and tore him down from the saddle, taking the beast for his own. The creature whinnied in distress and practically bucked the Assassin, but he tugged hard on the reins and dug his heels hard into its flanks – the horse charged towards the fleeing coach with all its might. Then, one of the carriage's shutters was opened, and the porpous Comte de Provence stuck his head out into the night, chuckling. "Ah, _bonne nuit,_ M. Chapheau! A rather dry night for an evening ride, don't you think?"

After his ordeals so far, Stephane was not in the mood to banter with his target. "Louis Stanislas Xavier Capet, you are under arrest!"

This only served to amuse the noble even more. A chortle escaped him, his jowls flapping in the breeze. He stuck his head back into the coach, saying, "I think not. M. Chapeau, take care of him, won't you?"

A bullet whizzed past Stephane's ear. "Jacques! Stop this madness, now, boy!"

"I cannot! _Monsiegneur!"_

From behind him, Stephane heard the thundering clatter of hooves, as another Knight emerged from the forest – a young man, nobly attired with a tall hat and a gilded pistol. He only had a second to react before the young Comte de la Rochejaquelein fired at Stephane, grazing the hand holding his reins; shrieking in pain, Stephane's grip faltered, and his steed gave way to Rochejaquelein's lighter mare. The Assassin was quite frankly shocked that they had allowed Henri de la Rochejaquelein to escort the de Provence – he was only barely a man, yet he had already nearly incapacitated Stephane's maneuverability.

Another bullet – this one pierced the chest of his horse. The beast whinnied in pain, its death cry heart wrenching to all that heard it, and collapsed, the Assassin crushed beneath its weight. Stephane struggled to release his left foot from the saddle and continue the chase, but the carriage was already several leagues away. After finally extricating himself from the back of his slaughtered companion, the Comte de Provence stuck his head out from the carriage once again and cried, _"Adieu, M. Chapheau! Hommes, à Bruxelles!"_

Stephane – scraped, ragged, aching, and now, without escape – cursed. _"Zut alors!"_

* * *

_Varennes, Meuse  
Lorraine, France_  
_11:00 p.m., 21 June, 1791_

Varennes was a little town sloping downwards toward the river Aire with one long, narrow street. The day had flown by uneventfully for the inhabitants of the village. The roads were mostly deserted as the coach of Their Majesties trundled down the road towards an open square, the Place du Chateau, where the old seigniorial castle once stood. Connor had decided to fall back a short ways – the populace of the town had already been alerted, and the guard had been called in the night; the church bells were already ringing from the Church of St. he stalked the coach from the rooftops, he spotted the church before him and, opposite to it, the _Hôtel de Ville._ A looming bell tower stood before the Assassin - this was connected to the _Hôtel_ by a low arch. Glancing down, he espied the peculiarly shaped coach squeezing through the narrow arch in the town wall, swarmed by Knights of the French Guard, the golden livery of the Lazarenes gleaming out beneath the moonlight. He leaped towards the bell tower and grabbed hold of a railing – pulling himself up, he prowled along the side to gaze down at the spectacle unfolding of National Guardsmen milled about the steps of Town Hall, tricolored cockades pinned to their hats. They slammed the butts of their muskets into the ground and saluted as an official went up to greet the carriage from the front doors of the _Hôtel._ He went up to the coach, opened the door, and began to question them, holding a candle up into the enclosure. _"Who are you, and what is your destination?"_

Swiftly, Connor stood on the opposite rail and searched for a landing space. As he found one, there was a deafening moment of silence on the ground. Connor leaped onto an abandoned cart and jumped primly onto the road, stalking towards the scene. Then, from the official:_ "This man's papers are made out for Frankfort."_ As he got closer, the official's voice became clearer, more harsh in its interrogation. The man folded the papers up in his hand and asked, "You do know, 'M. Durand', that Varennes is not on the road to Frankfort, _oui? _And that, though signed by the King, these also require the seal of the National Assembly to be valid?"

It was then that a more familiar voice made its way towards Connor. "… ell you, I am Hippolyte Durand, valet to Baroness Korff," the man asserted.

The official snorted. "You are not! You are Louis Capet, King of the French, former King of France and Navarre. You were recognized at a post house earlier, along your route. And you, lady, are his wife, the one who has been robbing us for years, taking bread from our children and spending our money on diamonds for yourself! Tell me, where are all those diamonds now? Are they in this carriage?" The man leaned forward, looking beneath the seats. The Assassin frowned. Victory was one thing, but gloating was another. "Your trunks will be searched," he continued. "And you will not be allowed to proceed further. Get down out of this carriage now." The occupants made no move. "Out, I say! Or you will be forced out!"

_"Monsieur,"_ drawled Connor from behind him. "Surely your orders did not include mishandling the targets?" As the official flipped around, mouth opened in outrage, Connor held up his branded ring finger.

Thrusting the candle before him, the official peered at it, then rolled his eyes. "Of course, he would send Riquetti's _garçon_, wouldn't he…?" He thrust the candle back at the door hopelessly. "They will not get down from the carriage, _Monsieur._ If you could persuade them…"

Connor stuck his head into the carriage. Inside, he saw the double-chinned man from the Day of Daggers, clad in a borrowed coat of brown plush, heavily stained with sweat under the arms. His linens were dirtied and travel-stained with grease and grass – it looked as if he had made quite a few stops during his journey from Paris. The King's eyes flashed in recognition, and Connor pleaded, "M. Capet, you once declared yourself to be in my debt. Please consider this my payment. Come out of the coach, and we can all return to Paris in peace."

"M. Connor…" With a sigh, Louis XVI nodded and heaved his large bulk out of the carriage, which rocked and lurched with each of his heavy steps. A musket fell to the ground from his lap – quick as a flash, the official swooped down viciously, picking it up from the ground.

"Was it your intent to fire on the People's representatives?" he demanded to know.

"I would have protected my family, had the need arisen…"

Pursing his lips, Connor turned from the combative official and gazed at the trio still huddled in the carriage. "You saved me once before, _Monsieur. _Do you now intend to kill me?" This was not asked with any malice on her part; the Queen was hardly the licentious crone Marat made her out to be. Rather, she was simply a poor ignorant woman entrusted with a great deal of other peoples' money, and whose safety – and that of her children – was being periodically threatened by her own subjects. Not an enviable position.

"No, Madame; I only intend to bring you home; to safety." He held out his hand and, gracefully, Antoinette placed hers within it, stepping down from the coach. Next came her daughter, presumably the _Madame Royale,_ Marie Thérèse. From behind her came a figure about less than half her height – the son of the King, the Dauphin of the French. Connor gazed down at the child, and then kneeled down meet his gaze. He was dressed shabbily, in a young girl's attire to disguise his true gender. His long blonde hair was superbly combed, and frightened, but curious hazel eyes met his. "You are His Royal Highness, the Dauphin, _oui?"_

_"Oui, monsieur._ We've met once before – at Versailles, I think. You were very brave, in defending my mother. I thank you for it." Louis-Charles – the Dauphin and future King of the French – held his head high when addressing his new captor. Connor was struck by the confidence in the boy; he had likely been trained from an early age to show competence and grace in the face of adversity. "I had thought we were going to act in a play, last evening, since we were put in all these odd dresses." Connor would have spoken with him more, but the official had finished with Louis and was ordering them to follow him to the _Hôtel de Ville._ An elderly woman climbed out from the coach and ushered the Dauphin along – the governess, probably. Looking back at the coach, the Assassin though that the Dauphin had been quite right to guess that an amateur performance had been in store.

A man called M. Sauce graciously offered the hospitality of his house to Their Majesties, further down the steep road, on the left. A short distance from there flowed the River Aire, transversed by a narrow bridge. On the other side was a large square with a church in the center. Opposite this were the steps of the _Hôtel du Grand Monarque_, from which two roads diverged: one south to Verdun, the other to north Stenay – and on to Montmédy. _They had been so close…_ As Connor stood guard by the door, the little town awoke. A knot of officials joined him in his watch on the building, eyeing the white-clad foreigner with not a little suspicion, but they eventually fell into chattering amongst themselves. Further National Guardsmen entered through the narrow arch in the town's wall, Tricolors flying defiantly in the night, and the citizens began to sing the now despised "_Ça ira" _and began to beat against the walls of Sauce's listened to the new lyrics detachedly:_ "The aristocrats… we'll hang them!" _It was a sad affair; such violence would have horrified him a few years ago. Now, it only tired him. And, of course, the small town was ablaze with gossip:

_"Did you hear? The King has come to visit us in the night! Oh, isn't it exciting?"_

_"I heard they wanted to rendezvous with General Bouillé and besiege Paris!"_

_"We should escort them to Montmédy in the morning!"_

_"No! The King to Paris!"_

The sun peaked over the canopy, and with the dawn came the distinct sound of hoofbeats. Only two riders from the west. They came galloping up to the knot of officials standing in the street outside M. Sauce's home and one of them announced in a voice of authority, "I am Captain Romeuf, aide-de-camp to General Gilbert du Motier, and with official papers from the National Assembly!" Connor had known the man somewhat – a Lafayette's Lafayette, given his position. The newcomers conferred with the officials; then, being granted access to the building, Romeuf dismounted and gave his mount to one before he caught sight of the Assassin leaning against the doorpost."M. Connor – General du Motier sends his regards. Please, come with me." He led the way into the house - a two story with a narrow corkscrew staircase leading up to two rooms. Romeuf burst open one of the rooms and they entered with haste. In the backroom was collected all the sorry majesty of France. The king seated himself in an armchair in the middle of the room, and the Dauphin and his sister were asleep on a bed, the faithful Madame de Tourzel seated by their side. The bodyguards sat on a bench underneath the window.

The Queen, when she saw Romeuf, stood and cried, "Sir, is it you? I never would have believed it!"

He ignored her. "King Louis Capet of the French," said Captain Romeuf loudly, "I have a warrant for your arrest, signed by the President of the National Assembly and General du Motier. You are to collect your possessions and return to Paris with us immediately." Then he handed Marie Antoinette the decree of the Assembly, and having fulfilled his duties, left the room.

Louis read it over her shoulder and said, "There is no longer a King in France." Now, he tried to stall – for what, Connor could not know. He asked to speak with the deputies alone, but was refused. He requested that they should wait for the children to awake. As a last resource, on of Antoinette's maids declared to be seized with a violent attack of illness, and a doctor was sent for. All this only delayed their departure by an hour – finally, the Royal Family slowly and sadly descended the winding staircase. They reentered their coach and, with a crack of the reigns, they were off, the guards seated atop the carriage. Connor followed behind them in another – just in case the crowds became too vehement on their way back to the Capital.

* * *

_Champs-Élysées  
Paris, France  
6:00 p.m., Saturday, 25 June 1791_

On a day of blazing summer heat, the King reentered Paris. As the pair of carriages rolled down the _Champs-Élysées_, Connor was again stricken by a harsh feeling of déjà-vu, only this time he knew the source: it was only a year ago, after all, that the King had triumphantly entered Paris after the Bastille's fall to roaring crowds and readied cockades. Then, as now, people clung to rooftops and crouched on chestnut limbs within the _cabinets de verdure _planted along the route – it was as if the entire city had been admitted into the Brotherhood, every one of them clamoring for a View Point, all of them eager to see the embodiment of the Nation come into their midst, tricolor ribbons fluttering in the breeze. Now, his entrance was greeting by a cold, confused silence. The citizens had been eager enough to defame the King and his family on the road back to Paris, but now they only stared. He had sworn to uphold and defend the Constitution of the French – by fleeing Paris, and declaring himself opposed to the Assembly, he had broken a holy vow sworn on the very Altar to the Fatherland. They did not know how they should receive this… traitor. Connor peered outside the window of his carriage, to see any sign of a familiar face… but the only looks he received were the hostile gazes of the People.

Passing through the city, the National Guards lined the route, presenting their arms with butts reversed, as if it were a funeral; which, in a way, it was. The carriage jolted, suddenly – they had arrived outside the palace. The Guard rushed to pull open the gates, and as they did so, Connor caught sight of the railing. In His Majesty's absence, some wit had hung a placard on the railing: _MAISON À_ _LOUER. Premises to let._ The carriages rolled on into the Tuileries Palace, practically bursting with National Guardsmen. Standing on the porch of the Palace itself were a number of indignant Deputies from the National Assembly; at their head was the King's own cousin, Louis-Philippe, the former Duc d'Orléans – which seemed rather tactless, to say the least. As the carriages stopped again, Philippe caught Connor's eye through the window and smiled, bobbing his head in respect. He could only roll his eyes at this display of familial juvenility, and when the door to his vehicle was opened, Connor almost pushed the footman to the ground in his haste to leave the cramped enclosure. He had always been more at him in open spaces, or in the wild recesses of the world. Being stuck in a coach for several days on end, choking with dust from the road, was not his opinion of adequate transportation. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Their Majesty's berlin door being pulled open. _So much for conciliation, _he thought. _After this flight, Louis cannot hope that the People will believe that he accepts their Constitution. Even if he does, Marat will suspect he has done so to save his own skin. The monarchy is doomed._

Down stepped Louis Capet, King of the French. The Guards at once tensed, ready to spring into action at a single notice – but the crowd remained silent. The King, clad in brown plush, sweat-stained under his arms, looked all the more like a butcher than be probably should; yet there was a surreal dignity about the portly right hand was thrust into the coat, his left clenched nervously behind his back. From behind him stepped the Queen, clad only in her muslin day dress, her hair now streaked with gray. Connor started – it had not been like that in Varennes. Her face was lined and haggard, her hair improvised into a loose chignon at the nape of her neck. The exhausted children followed her, the Dauphin clinging to her hand for comfort. Still, the Queen held her head high above the murmurs of the crowd, her fair skin flushed from the swelter of the day. D'Orléans and the Deputies retreated in procession, for now; General Gilbert du Motier had just exited the TuileriesPalace. The Guards saluted him, slamming their butts into the ground, but he dismissed it with a wave of his hand. As the Royal Family strolled up the steps to the Tuileries, Gilbert hurried to the King and skidded to a halt, bowing at the waist. "Your Majesty's orders for the day?"

The King only smiled. "It appears," Louis said, "that I am more at _your_ orders than you at mine,_ Monsieur."_

_The Royal Family climbed the steps into the palace, and with a slam of the door, was gone._

* * *

_Cour de Miracles, Rue Reaumur  
Paris, France  
9:00p.m., 25 June, 1791_

Another mission, another report to Mentor Marat. "Well," he said, "you were… more or less successful." Connor, as usual, leaned against the doorpost; Stephane, after his failure to recapture the former Comte de Provence, had slunk back to Paris a week later, and looked all the worse for it – most of his clothes were ragged and filthy, whilst his Phrygian cap had a noticeable dent in it. Finally, a new Brother had been admitted into the Mentor's office – Georges-Jacques Danton. Stepping into the room, Connor had immediately noted the behemoth's ring finger tapping on the chair of his miniscule chair; it was branded in the same style as his and Stephane's. Danton had only winked at him, and said nothing; another Mirabeau-ish act from the lawyer. The man's absence all of a sudden hit Connor - the King had fled, and Mirabeau, who might have turned the situation around and saved the monarchy despite all, was dead. Now here were his replacements, plotting the King's fall.

Stephane sighed under Marat's scrutiny. "I am not in my greatest element in the forest, Marat. You would have been better off sending Danton, for all the good I could have done you there."

"Well, I could not send him! Someone had to ring the tocsin that night." Marat smiled at the bartender, yet it did not quite reach his eyes – they were sharp, piercing into Stephane's, searching for a single chink in the armor. "I do hope your failure was not due to your sympathies with your traitor cousin, Stephane. Why, that would almost make you a turncoat, yourself-"

"I hold no love for the King, the Comte, nor my cousin or his petty lords," Stephane grit out through clenched teeth, fists coiled and ready. "My only love is for the Revolution. The rest can burn, for all I care."

"Good, good. However, you, M. Chapheau, are hereby demoted to the rank of Aspirant." Connor frowned and opened his mouth to protest, but Marat held up his hand for silence – a single gesture, and he was silenced. Marat continued, "You allowed Stanislas Capet to escape – now he is in Brussels, the humble host of His Imperial Majesty Leopold of Austria, Hochmeister of the Teutonic Knights. He has achieved what his damned _leech_ of a sister never could! – he has joined the Teutons and Lazarenes under one banner; their sole mission: to enslave France. _Émigrés_ from the Day of Daggers are amassing in Belgium, Savoy, Britain, and Spain, and the armies of those nations will support them on the march to Paris. The Austrians leer down at us from the north, Savoy from the east, Spain from the south, and if the British don't attempt a landing in the west, then I'll eat my own hat! We are now surrounded by enemies, foreign and domestic! You have compromised the Nation, the Revolution, and most importantly, the Brotherhood! That, alone, is worthy of death."

Danton spoke up now, rather put off by the doctor's furor against his friend. "Don't be too hard on him, Marat-"

"And don't _you_ start, Danton! Where were you during the Bastille riots, eh? Did you go take a nap after rousing the Cordeliers?!"

The lawyer shrugged helplessly. "Well, I had a case during the _actual_ assault on the Bastille… A man's got to earn a living, after all…"

"What about the October Days? I didn't even see you so much as _shuffle_ in Versailles's direction!"

"…There was an appeal." Danton's twiddling thumbs and eyes rolling to the ceiling were pretty harsh indicators of his falsehood; but Marat only scoffed at him and swept his gaze onto Stephane once again.

"You are now in disfavor, Chapheau. Connor tells me you made quite a few stirs on the streets of Boston, back in the day – it's for that reason alone that I don't have you strung up from the lamppost outside this very door. A word of advice, M. Stephane – do not fail again, else you'll be joining Riquetti in the Pantheon." Marat's eyes took on a predatory gleam as he sized up Connor, who immediately regretted coming in that day and was now very thankful he had decided to position himself near the exit. "Now, let us discuss M. Motier…"

* * *

_Hôtel de Lafayette, 183 rue de Bourbon  
__Paris, France  
__11:00 a.m., 26 June 1791_

"I passed by them, you know," began General Motier as they sat in his salon on the Isle de Saint-Louis. Connor had inquired Mdm. Adrienne about her husband, but she had only thrown up her hands and shuttled him off to the man himself – she had apparently received more than a few inquiries in the past week. "It was about eleven or so… I just drove on past them into the Tuileries, on the Cour des Princes, and they slipped past my watch. I had gone to see His Majesty's _coucher_ – and I even went back, to make sure all was secure for the night; prevent a repeat of the October Days, you understand. Yet, I let them wriggle away into scandal yet again. I'm pretty sure I passed by the Queen, too." He sighed. "I am not very good at this job, am I, Connor?"

Connor prodded his cup of tea with a spoon, contemplatively. "A King is a hard man to keep penned up, Gilbert, by any man. You've done well so far, I think. Still… this proclamation you put out…" Connor peered past the rim of his cup at the paper strewn on the clothed table. _"'The enemies of the Revolution have seized the person of the King.' _You spoke of an_ abduction-"_

Gilbert sighed. "I swore an oath, Connor, to uphold the Nation, the Law, and the King. On a holy altar, I so swore."

The Assassin sipped at the tea tentatively – it was more than a little bitter. As he reached for the sugar, he said, "I was there, Gilbert. I heard the words. And, if you will remember, the King _also_ took an oath. He vowed that he was one with the People and the Revolution, and he lied. I would have thought that would release you from your obligations."

The General frowned. "I cannot answer for the King on Judgment Day; I can only answer for myself. Do you see? I must remain loyal to the King and the Constitution, despite their failings. If a few lies can maintain the peace-"

Connor shook his head. "But it will not. Let me be honest, _mon ami." _He gestured at the paper helplessly._ "_ This… this _drivel_ is the most transparent, half-arsed piece of work I have ever seen. This will not protect the King – it will only serve to undermine you, and make you lose all influence with the People of Paris. And it already has." Connor sighed and said, "Marat is printing a scathing rebuttal to you in _L'Ami du Peuple_. I am placed in the terribly awkward position of agreeing with him. It would have been better for you to have said nothing at all."

"Yet I did – and now, I am in the awkward position of reconciling Prince and People."

"You desired that very position, not one year ago, if I recall."

"Yes…" The _ci-devant _marquis de La Fayette sighed again and sluggishly transitioned the subject. "The anniversary of the Bastille's fall is in a month. I do not think we will have a _Fête de la Fédération_ like last year…"

Connor remembered the sentiments of Anne Théroigne, just before the March on Versailles:_ You are too fond of Lafayette. You are too fond of his King. _"No," said he, "no, I do not think we will."

* * *

_Jacobin Club  
Paris, France  
3:00 p.m., 26 June, 1791_

_"Frenchmen, is it for this that you sent your representatives to the National Assembly? Do you desire that the anarchy and despotism of the clubs replace the monarchical government under which the nation has prospered for fourteen hundred years? Do you desire to see your King overwhelmed with insults and deprived of his liberty when his only occupation is to establish yours?" _~ Louis XVI, King of the French: 21 June, 1791

The Jacobins were aflame. A period of three weeks had been laid out to debate the impact of the Flight to Varennes on the nation. During this time, membership swelled to several hundred citizens, in spite of the high price of admission. A wave of emotion swept the city – anxiety, violence, anger, passion, panic – civil war seemed inevitable. Decorum was suggested at the door. The fact that the King had repudiated the Revolution on the eve of his flight was an even greater shock, particularly to those who still believed he reigned by the grace of God. Those men that had at first supported him in his steps to progress felt betrayed. There were now talks of forcing His Majesty to abdicate in favor of his son, and pronounce a regent to rule until he came of age (conveniently, the primary candidate for this tentative position was Louis-Philippe, the former Duc d'Orléans, as the King's brothers had both fled the country.) So, the Jacobins saw fit to import a certain leader of the Cordeliers, a M. Danton. Once again, Connor was perturbed as Danton channeled the late Comte de Mirabeau, thundering from the rostrum and hammering away at the podium, all up in a furor. By the end of his speech, Danton declared, "By upholding the hereditary monarchy, the National Assembly has reduced France to_ slavery! _Let us _abolish_, once and for all, the name and function of King: let us turn this _kingdom_ into a _republic!"_

This was a new idea. Thus far, there had only been talk of replacing the King – to abolish the title altogether was unheard of. Yet the Jacobins were receptive – they gave Danton a standing ovation, loudly crying his praises. However, when the din died down, there was one who that contested him. Maximilien Robespierre, the Deputy of Artois, rose to reply, minutely adjusting his bleached cravat with slim fingers crowned by bitten nails. "And what, _monsieur_, is a republic?"

* * *

_Émigrés: _(French) Nobles or royalists who left France and settled in bordering countries, in hopes of launching a counterrevolution. Chief amongst these were the King's brothers: the Comte d'Artois, and now, the Comte de Provence.

_À l'Auditore: _(French) If you didn't get that reference, then you have my permission to leave.

_Tout de suite: _(French) 'Immediately.'

_Zut alors: _(French) 'Damn it.' Now you can curse in French! You're welcome.

_Garçon: _(French) 'Boy/servant', a condescension on Connor's part in the Revolution so far…

_Coucher:_ (French) The nightly ceremony of putting the King to bed. Yes, that's right: the nobles all got together and tucked in the French King for bedtime. _Tradition!_

* * *

_I'm making an effort to make these things much longer. Using descriptive stuff. And words. Still working on it!_

_I would consider the Flight to Varennes as partially successful. True, it did not achieve it's main objective (a stronger position for the King) but it did allow the Comte de Provence to slip out of France unnoticed. He would continue to lead the French Counterrevolution until the fall of Napoleon, and his coronation as Louis XVIII._

_Ya, I really gave Stephane the short end of the stick here – his element is the city. He's certainly not as adept at tree-running and village-skirting as Connor is. Stephane's more of a rabble-rouser. (Note: 10 August is going to be fuuuuun.)_


	10. Fusillade

**I've been looking forward to this chapter for a long time… Things are actually beginning to happen! Also, college has begun. Yay~ -.-;**

**firelordzuko:** Thank you very much for those corrections last chapter! Please forgive my American centricity. It's hard to shake out of one's head… However, I offer no excuse for that 'A l'Auditore' nonsense. That was just amateur!  
**  
Chapter IX: Fusillade**

_"What shall become of liberty? Some say it is finished..."  
__**~ Revolutions de Paris, 18 July, 1791**_

* * *

_Les Cordeliers  
Paris, France  
Tuesday, 12 July, 1791_

On the 11th, the remains of the Mentor Voltaire – a forerunner to the Revolution – was buried in the Panthéon beside his successor Mirabeau, by order of the National Assembly. An estimated million people had attended the procession, which stretched throughout the city. All along the streets of Paris, there had been philosophers and orchestras, musing poetically on the Mentor's stance on subjects so far afield as, say, _Scottish humanism,_ and brass instruments playing a sepulchral but proud and stately anthem. There had, thankfully, been much less wailing and gnashing of teeth that had accompanied the former Comte's funerary march; only a muted solemnity, and an unspoken rage directed towards the TuileriesPalace, where their Majesties still reigned in (relative) opulence.

All of this chicanery occasioned comment, for the next day, the regular crowds permeated the Cordelier Club in southern Paris, on the Left Bank of the River Seine. Connor – flanked by Marat and Stephane – was jostled to and fro amongst the compressed multitudes. Having to – frankly – shove his way through to a good view point, the Assassin peered up at the man that now sidestepped M. Danton in order to mount the speaker's rostrum in the center of the refectory. He had a long nose and a stern countenance, looking all the part of a harsh and unmerciful schoolmaster. His forehead was deeply lined, as if he had spent a great amount of time with his brows raised, contemplating some deep manner of philosophical importance. His dark, thinning hair had been forged into coils at the nape of his neck, to forego the wig famed throughout Europe (and it had been left unpowdered in support of the Third Estate, with flour being in such short supply in Paris.) Connor leaned over to Marat and asked, "Who is that, now?"

_"L'Ami des Noirs:_ Jacques-Pierre Brissot." Marat smiled. "We have a mutual friend from Marseilles, but I can't say I'm too fond of the man. Politics, you understand…"

Brissot shuffled a few sheets of paper to his left and, grasping the rail with his right, glared down at the people below him. _"Citoyen!_ Shall we allow the reins of empire to be held by this infamous perjurer, traitor, and fugitive of the French Nation, Louis Capet? Should we not accept the abdication he made on the 21st of June, of the Crown that had been delegated to him? Capet abandoned his throne and his crown in favor of his own skin, yet the Deputies of this Nation still claim them as his! Capet has shamed all of France in the eyes of Europe – we, who were to be the vanguard of Liberty in the Old World, have been made a laughingstock by our King and our own representatives! _No more! _No more half-measures, no more compromises, in the face of the indecision, the hypocrisy, of the National Assembly! We are surrounded by enemies, all chomping at the bit whilst we dither away in our procedures and debates!" Brissot raised his left hand, and brandishing them like a baton, he proclaimed, "I have drawn up a petition demanding the removal of this _supposed_ King of the French! It is now up to you, Cordeliers! With your support, this petition should be placed on the _Autel de la Patrie_ in the _Champ de Mars_ to be signed by the people of Paris!Let the General Will succeed where the Assembly has failed! _Vive la Revolution!"_

A man thumped his table in agreement_. "Vive la Republique!"_ The crowd began to chant._ "Vive la Republique!"_ Brissot's lips twitched in pleasure, yet they pursed in credulity, and as he stepped down from the podium, he was approached by M. Danton, arms folded behind his back, no doubt to discuss the arrangements to be made at the Champ-de-Mars in the next few days.

Marat snickered. "Ah, the bleating of the sheep." Turning aside, he headed for the exit, Connor right on his plagued heels. The journalist was given a far wider berth by the crowd than they had given Connor – nor could he really blame them for that precaution. "You will notice, _Monsieurs_, that Brissot never really called for a Republic; not that he doesn't want one, Brissot's a Republican of a different stripe. No, that petition likely calls for 'the constitutional accession for Louis the Umpteenth' or some nonsense… I say, if you're going to push for change, you should at least be forthright about it… and mow down _en masse_ those that stand rooted before progress."

Connor asked, "And you support a Republic, do you, Marat?"

The journalist replied, "Actually, I'm for a dictator – one who can lay hands on the known traitors of France, one who could rid us of our mortal enemies-"

"A dictator?" Connor blinked in confusion. "Do you mean to paint yourself as a Templar?"

"You purposefully misunderstand me. We Assassins safeguard Liberty, yes; but Liberty must be defended, by blood; else she holds no bite. Hence, we give ourselves free reign to murder Templars, those _cretins_ that would steal away our rights. A dictator, in the vogue of Philippe _le Bel,_ would have similar reign – and I assure you, Free Will would be forever beyond the Templars' reach under such a regime. But a Republic is the next logical step in that process. And the biggest roadblock to the FrenchRepublic is, of course, M. du Motier. The National Guard was established to put down these sorts of populist movements after the fall of the Bastille. We can be certain that he will disperse the People at the Champ de Mars on the day of the petitioning." Marat frowned now. "You superseded my orders once, Connor, in saving him. Then, Riqueti was Mentor; now, I am. My orders to you: do not interfere."

Stephane spoke up then; likely still scathing from his demotion after his failed mission last month. "You know, with all this talk of rolling heads and ruling despots, I cannot help but wonder: Was there ever a moment when you _weren't_ a poisonous toad, Marat?"

The physician laughed. "Oh, yes, far back in my infancy, I too suckled from the teat of supplication! Yes, I was a moderate for a time, M. Stephane; this was back during the early days, when the Estates-General had first been called and I assumed tutelage under M. Riquetti. I then entered into a dialogue with him and his colleagues. The grievances of the People, I exposed to them, and their responding silence spoke volumes. Ah, but the opulent ignorant are willfully so! So, I became the People's Friend. I maintained a severe but honest tone, never breaking one of society's conventions. I whispered; I was ignored. I spoke louder; I was heard. I shouted; I was obeyed." He twirled back to the two, eyes blazing. "And that, _Monsieurs,_ is why I am so 'poisonous'. Why I renounced demureness for castigation. Why I will continue to do so. In moderation, there is weakness. In radicalization, there is power. Take Brissot's petition, for instance. It is weak, moderate. It will accomplish little, in truth. The laws of this Nation have only ever been designed to oppress, and the Assembly will continue as it will, signatures or no. I must now appeal to the Sovereign People."

* * *

_Champ-de-Mars  
Paris, France  
Thursday, 14 July, 1791_

'Lafayette intends to fire on the people; therefore, I intend to have the general assassinated.' ~ L'Ami du Peuple, J.P. Marat, editor

"Ah, Marat," said Danton wondrously. "The man scorned by Lady Subtlety! Or was it the other way 'round?"

He, Connor, and Stephane were currently lounging in the famed wine-shop of St. Antoine, run by the Defarges (a rather peculiar locale that – where there had once been a great bloody fortress in the center of the district, now was a monstrous gaping square that not a single person had the slightest idea to do with.) It was a fair enough establishment, nary a leak nor louse to be found. Granted, they were competitors with Santerre, but Danton had recommended the Defarges, saying that they were "slightly more fun" than the Assassin lieutenant (the Defarges themselves were not too impressed by this assessment.)

The Second _Fête de la F_é_d_é_ration _had been the opposite of the first, just as Lafayette had predicted. First off, where there had once been scattered rain, there had now been gleaming sunshine. Secondly, where a festive unity had permeated the first Festival, it had been nowhere in evidence in the second. Despite being expanded to hold more participants than before, the original crowd had dwindled. The Royal Family had declined to attend – feigning, perhaps, sickness or just disinterest. The National Constituent Assembly, instead of turning out in force to view the ceremony, had only sent a token deputation of twenty-four deputies, Robespierre among them. There had been no foreign dignitaries to report the proceedings back to their home nations. Gilbert had been prominent on his gleaming steed, but there had been no cheers to greet him on the Champ de Mars – only a bleak and defiant silence. Finally, when the General had retaken the Oath to the Constitution and the King, the crowd turned sour, proclaiming _"No more King!" "Vive la Republique!"_ The only man happy with all of these changes was Thomas Paine – he had described it only as 'a grand occasion, with nary a blue-blood in sight.' Connor was not sure how Gilbert had reacted to that, but the Hotel de Lafayette must surely be a more awkward abode by now.

Stephane frowned at the paper. "Is there any truth to it, do you think?"

Danton shrugged and leaned back in his seat, rocking to and fro, despite it being a four legged chair. "Who knows? Marat is half-mad, half-genius; but, as it happens, we have been tipped off – the Cordeliers battalion has been confined to our district for the weekend. That does not bode well, in my opinion."

Connor stared out into space, thinking. Then, "Can't you stop it? Stop the whole thing happening?"

"What, the crowds? They wouldn't listen. They've all turned out for Bastille Day. For them, the petition is just another addendum to it. And I can't speak for Lafayette." Danton looked pointedly at Connor, at this.

The Assassin sighed. "… I will try to reason with him. He's my friend; that must count for something." Yet he could not help the feeling that he was less than able for the task set before him.

* * *

_Hôtel de Ville  
Paris, France  
Friday, 15 July, 1791_

General Gilbert du Motier, ci-devant Marquis de La Fayette, and Commander of the National Guard, addressed the Paris Commune the very next day. "I am informed that an irresponsible group of citizens from the Cordeliers section plan to march on the Champ de Mars to proclaim a republic!" The Paris Commune burst into outrage, a hundred or so infuriated voices, each clamoring to be heard, each vowing to their colleagues that it is they who seek to defend the Nation, not them – Mayor Bailly rings the ceremonial bell, and the chimes echo throughout the hall, summoning the Communards to silence. Gilbert, gratified, continued. "I must therefore ask you to pass a decree of martial law to suppress all illegal assemblies! Do not forget the men that were hung on the footsteps of this very building! The success of the Revolution depends on the safety of Paris!" The prospect of an armed suppression of the people does nothing to faze their own representatives, it seems – they even deign to give the good General a standing ovation.

_"Vive le Roi! Vive la Reine!_

_"VIVE LA FAYETTE!"_

Mayor Bailly called for the votes to proceed to the floor – a plurality, no, a majority was in favor of martial law. Turning to the rostrum, he said, "We have entrusted our General with sweeping powers, for the moment being; let order be swiftly restored to Paris, in the name of the Constitution and the King! _Vive la Royaume des Français!"_ With that, Bailly rung the bell a second time, and the Communards stood as one, all of them clamoring for the exit, eventually congesting the flow of movement through the outer halls.

Gilbert, however, had not yet left the podium before he spotted a white robed man storm up to him at the rostrum. The Assassin asked, "Is it true?"

The General asked, calmly, "Is what true?"

Connor's eyes narrowed. He was not in the mood for word games. "Do you plan to fire on the people?"

"If they insist on forcing a confrontation, yes, I must. I swore an oa-"

"To hell with the oath!" His voice echoed throughout the Commune chamber, resonating with the voices of Paris. He pushed on. "These are your people, your fellow countrymen! Would you mow them down _en masse_ just to protect your cowardly King?"

Gilbert coldly replied, "His Majesty was ill-advised, when he escaped Paris. It will not happen again."

"How many times must this man fail for you to recognize that _he_ is the problem, not the advisors?"

"He has discarded countless royal privileges, emancipated the Clergy, abolished the Nobility, and even now wears the patriotic cockade before the National Assembly. And you accuse him of conservatism?" Gilbert shook his head, disgustedly. "I have had enough of this; I have drilling to conduct. _Adieu,_ Connor." And with that, the former Marquis de La Fayette took his leave.

Grinding his teeth in rage, Connor stalked through the halls of the Hotel de Ville, unimpeded for a great while, before he ran across a pristine politician – a rare sight these days. It could only be Maximilien Robespierre, and it was; he had attended the appeal in an olive green jacket and his wig was rolled back in that tight bun, as usual. He had just taken off his glasses in the center of the hallway when he caught sight of the Assassin and nodded his head, saying, "M. Connor. May I speak with you a moment?" After he nodded his assent, Robespierre joined Connor in his rutmaking, pacing about the Hall. "So, what do you think? Will the General fire on the people?"

Connor had no answer for the deputy. Instead, he said, "When I first came here to France, all Lafayette could speak of was transforming Paris. He spoke of liberating the city and restoring it to its former glory; what that glory is, I cannot say. It certainly is not this current state of affairs: the King, gone, his relatives, scheming, and Lafayette… well, he's supporting a rotten mast. He can stand by it all he likes, yet I fear he will only be crushed by it."

"A rather astute observation of the man – but you would know him better than I." Robespierre smiled at the Assassin. "So, the Revolutionary became a Reactionary? Well, you say he began on a high note – and there are many who wish to rid France of her ailments, with virtue in their heart and justice in their hands. Perhaps the General simply lost sight of the main objective? Perhaps he could be persuaded, at the very end? If anyone can change his opinion, M. Connor, I do think it could be you. My advice would be to go to the Champ de Mars early on and convince him that his dream – Rosseau's dream - is still alive – we can transform Paris. Why, we can even transform the world!" This seemed to be a rather passionate topic for the young lawyer, as his eyes acquired a childish gleam and his smile became genuine. However he frowned and looked away from Connor, saying, "I supported the petition early on, and I still do, morally; however, tomorrow, the Assembly plans on declaring the King inviolable, and the Jacobins will want to retract their support of the petitioning. I plan on spending Sunday trying to convince them otherwise. Would you please deliver my regrets to Camille? I know it means very much to him."

"I would be honored to, yes." That was one thing about Robespierre – despite his cold diffidence, he genuinely cared for his childhood friend. It was almost enough to calm Connor down from his black mood. Almost. "I will try to reason with Lafayette once more… But I fear I have less influence on him than most…"

* * *

_Champ-de-Mars  
Paris, France  
3:00 p.m., Sunday, 17 July, 1791_

The day before, the King had been declared inviolable by the National Constituent Assembly. The Jacobins, as Robepsierre predicted, withdrew support of the petition. The Cordeliers, however, were not so easily swayed. Even without the Jacobins, they had roused the sleeping giant. Up to ten thousand souls gathered on the Sunday after the _Fête de la Fédération_ on the Champ de Mars. The petition had been posted on the Altar to the Fatherland – which had been 'remodeled' sometime during the last few months. The year before, 1790, it had read,_ "la Nation, la Loi, le Roi_"; now, 1791, the dedication read,_ "la Nation, la Loi, le -";_ the last word had been effaced. The King had fled. There was no King. From the Altar to the Fatherland, the physician scanned the crowds in the Champ de Mars, muttering to himself and noting distinguished Revolutionary patriots amongst the throng. "Hebert. Brissot. Desmoulins. Barbaroux." Marat frowned – he had come up short. "Where is Danton? And Robespierre?"

"The Jacobins withdrew their support for the petition, not two days ago. Robespierre said he would be at the Club today – he's trying to change their mind before the Assembly meets again. Danton…" Connor trailed off meaningfully and Marat cursed.

"Marat! Mentor Marat!" A pair of Assassins rushed up to the Mentor. "We've disposed with a pair of spies! They had been hiding beneath a platform, just this morning!"

"Were they, now? Show them to me." With a determined stride, Marat sprung towards the center of the Champ de Mars, followed sluggishly by Connor and Camille. There, hanging from a few scattered posts beneath the shadow of the Autel de La Patrie, were two ragged men, likely homeless from the looks of them, all whiskers and dirt. Staring up at them dispassionately, Marat smiled and said, "So, is this what these Lazarenes think of us? Unwashed, huddled masses too simple to hide in plain sight?" Marat turned to Desmoulins and said, grinning, "I believe this is your department, Prosecutor – they have been killed _a la lanterne. _Was this _your_ doing?"

_"Non; _I was here, but this was the will of the Sovereign People. Who knows what mischief these traitors could have undertook if-"

"Did you have any proof?" Connor's tone had turned icy, yet his incendiary gaze scorched a path to Camille's. "Were these men, in fact, Lazarenes?"

"What does it matter? They certainly did themselves no help by cowering in the dark. If they did not care to come out into the light, then they are better strung up, don't you think?" By now, tocsins and bells had begun to ring in the neighboring districts; all of the Left Bank had to have heard of the lynchings by now, and it would only be a matter of time before the _Garde National_ brought its celestial fury down upon the protestors. However, since it was Sunday, the petitioners likely just assumed this was the letting out of the General Mass – indeed, the crowds were peaceful, festive, and – perhaps for lack of a better word – loiterous.

"You have doomed us all, Desmoulins," Connor spat hatefully. "What you have delivered onto these two will be brought down around us tenfold."

"Well, we needn't hold our breath, M. Connor," said Marat, quite unhelpfully. "Here they come now."

Into the vast Field of the Federation marched the National Guard of Constitutional Kingdom of the French. There were three contingents of soldiers that entered the area – one, from the southeast, surged around the military school. Another came through a lower area, and a third opened the northwestern gate and marched down from the Grande Rue de Chaillot, which let out near the River Seine. General du Motier was instantly recognizable on his white charger, and there was a new element as well – where once the National Guard proudly flew the Tricolor of the French Kingdom, now they only absconded with a red banner, which violently snapped in the breeze, abandoned by its brother colors and calling for blood.

Jacques-Pierre Brissot, _L'Ami des Noirs,_ stood and rested his right hand on the Autel de la Patrie. With a booming voice, he appealed to the National Guard. _"Citoyen!_ You have no right to be here, under arms! Join us, and sign my petition! The King has betrayed you, just as much as he betrayed us!"

The beat of drums and of marching feet clashed against the merrymaking. The National Guard formed ranks before the Altar, Gilbert du Motier leading them from atop his snowy charger. Gilbert trotted up before his ranks and glanced up at the ceremonial column at the side, from which the two men had been hung. They now swayed in the breeze, like some ghastly spectators to the events unfolding below them. The General's mouth pursed in disgust, then turned back to the crowds and proclaimed, "In the name of the National Constituent Assembly, and the Commune of Paris, I order you to disperse!"

Shouts of, "Traitor!" and "Lazarene!" burst from the crowd – as did a volley of stones. The former Marquis' horse shied away, whinnying in fear as rocks fell around it. "Keep ranks!"

"Gilbert!" Connor quickly ascended a few steps to the Altar, and said, "You must not do this! Please! Give up this madness now!"

The General's head tilted slightly in his direction, his plumed hat bowing to the Assassin; but he did not look directly at him. Instead, he addressed the crowd, ordering, "Go home quietly, all of you. The Revolution shall reach its conclusion at the appointed time, with His Majesty's blessings. You have my word! You all know me, you can trust me!"

It was then that Marat made his voice heard. The People's Friend sauntered up to the edge of the Altar to the Fatherland and gestured at the General, crying, "Join us, Lafayette! Join us! Then, and only then, will we trust you!"

"I beg you, do not make me use force!"

Marat snarled, "Traitor! You wouldn't dare!"

The General was not impressed. He cried, "Gentlemen, make ready!" and bayonets were leveled at the people. "Take aim!" cried Gilbert. At this, the multitude surged forth, and stones were flung once more. Ducking his head under one such projectile, he added, "Above their heads!" The tips were aimed to the heavens. _"Fusiller!" _The guns discharged into the sky, smoke bursting from their carriages and thunder cracking in the fields. The crowd recoiled, tightening against the Altar for protection.

Desmoulins pointed at the Guard and yelled, "They want to frighten us! They're shooting blanks!" However, the distinct pinging of metal unveiled this as a falsehood, but this was (fatally) ignored. As the butts of the rifles were prodded into the ground, and the long process of reloading was begun, powder rammed back into the barrels, the crowd laughed and jeered at their ordeal.

Stephane cursed. "For the love of Christ, if that boy doesn't _shut up…!"_

Suddenly, Connor was a boy again – the open field of the Champ de Mars transformed into a broad boulevard - King Street. High colonial buildings framed the street, and the Autel de la Patrie became a towering red brick building, a lion and a unicorn supporting the roof; symbols of the British monarchy. In the shadow of the Massachusetts Town House, Redcoats were again showered with stones, and from some deep place within the crowd _(or was it from atop a ceiling?), _a man fire a shot at their commander at point-blank range, but unaccountably missed. Captain Preston _(or was it General du Motier?)_ set his jaw. "Take aim!" The rifles were again lowered. He did not call for them to aim higher a second time. _"Fusillade!"_ Bullets were jettisoned into the crowds – where there had once been stones, now lead ruled the skies. One of them pieced Connor in the chest – a ripping sound was heard, and, gasping for breath, his white robes now stained with blood, he collapsed.

* * *

The people had called for the end of Louis' reign.

Now, Terror reigned in the streets of Paris.

Above the gunfire, Marat called for women and children to flee first. They hardly needed any more encouragement than that – a child was already among the first victims, followed by at least a score of wives. Within minutes, only a hundred of the petitioners remained on the Autel de la Patrie, the rest having scattered throughout the adjoined districts and roads, crashing through gates and pouring over crates in order to escape the massacre. The volunteer soldiers of the National Guard – distinguished by their shabby uniforms and dark leers – gave chase, pelting across the field into Paris proper, eager for plunder and slaughter, despite the protests of their commanding officers, heralds blowing futilely on their horns the command to regroup. Stephane, dumbfounded, had watched as Connor collapsed into the ground – and how Lafayette, dispassionately, had ordered another reload of the Guardsmens' musketry. Falling down on one knee beside his Mentor and propped him up against his shoulder. The Guardsmen were advancing on the Altar, Lafayette still astride that damned horse, calling for the cavalry to seal off the trio of exits and take the petitioners on the Altar into custody.

Mon Dieu_, they actually brought in cavalry? We'll all be slaughtered! _It was true: the terrible splintering of hoof on bone was the first portent of the horsemen's' arrival. Off to the right side of the Altar was a regiment of horse, most likely brought in from the French Army on the Austrian frontier. Shaking his head, Stephane slipped Connor's arm over his shoulder and followed his fellow Assassins down the steps and towards the eastern sections of Paris; Lafayette had taken the north of the Field, and the horsemen had quickly barred off the western gate. They rode across the Field of the Federation bearing the red flag of martial law at its head. Flying beneath that flag was another banner – a tricolored cross, inscribed with the motto, '_6e Régiment de Dragons'. Dragons. _They bore no resemblance to their mythic counterparts; these were simply men, mounted infantry or light cavalry in fact, swiftly borne into battle on the backs of their equine steeds and either dismounting to fight hand to hand, or conducting hit and run tactics on their routed enemies. In this case, however, the Dragoons seemed remarkably restrained compared to Lafayette's pouring infantry. Stephane wondered why they were not immediately charging after the fleeing citizens into the city – but then he noticed their commander. He was a tall man, about six feet was his estimate, and from the saddle of his ebony steed, he towered over the bloodbath. Tricolored feathers sprung forth from his bicorne, and a pairing sash served as a belt. He was also a dark skinned man, a _métis_ by the look of him – his hair was black and frizzy, his bushy eyebrows sticking out from the brim of his hat. Combat saber drawn, he held it aloft before swinging it down, urging his men to rout the protestors from the field.

"Chapheau, _wake up!_ _Par ici, tout de suite!"_ The barkeep shook his head again; Marat's voice could shake a man out of any stupor. The petitioners had already gone on before them, Guardsmen herding them through the streets as a shepherd would his flock – if the shepherd were a wolf. Up ahead was Marat, followed by Camille, Hebert, and Barbaroux – he was semi-conscious of Brissot helping him with Connor, his arm slung over the journalist's shoulder and hurrying to catch up with the others. The fleeing crowds and the pursuant riot police had left a trail of devastation in their wake – carriages had been overturned, shops dismantled, flour and jewels strewn onto the streets, and everywhere, blood, more blood. At last, Marat halted before a bank and squatted in the middle of the road. At first Stephane supposed that he had finally lost his mind, but then the physician shoved aside a pothole and gestured for the rest to enter. Slinging Connor across his neck Stephane grabbed hold of the ladder and descended into the darkness.

* * *

_Les Catacombes,_ _carrières de Paris  
Barrière d'Enfer, Paris, France  
5:30 p.m._

They went south. They had had to enter the Catacombes from within the city – the gates had been barred shut. As he shifted in and out of consciousness, Connor saw familiar statues lining the inner sanctum of the Assassins' Guild. There was Voltaire and Rosseau, alongside Damiens and Philippe IV. He almost thought he could see Mirabeau as well, standing in front of his predecessors and pondering the path the Revolution had taken him, lambasting the stone figures as silent witnesses and accomplices to a preventable tragedy. Walking behind them was Barbaroux, who dutifully pulled all the gates trailing them closed and bolted. As Connor bled onto the dusty floor of the tunnel, arm slung around Stephane's shoulders, the barkeeper glared pointedly at the journalist. "Aren't _you_ a doctor, Marat?"

He was answered by a snort. "Yes, I am – but I'm not a surgeon. Those are two _completely_ different occupations. Besides, do you _really_ want M. Connor catching whatever I've got?" Marat's face, still oozing with moist sores, gleamed hideously in the dim torchlight. Stephane was quiet.

There was another statue, however, that he had not taken notice of since he had last been there. Stephane looked at a statue hidden away within a deep recess of the Catacombes. The marble figure had been dressed in ragged clothes, and long, unkempt hair. His face could not be discerned, for it had been covered by a mask of black velvet cloth. "Who was that man?"

Marat glanced at it and shrugged. "The unknown Assassin, perhaps? The fallen, forgotten masses? He's been theorized to be some relative of Louis XIV as far as I know, but don't hedge too many bets on that – we know more about who he _wasn't_ than who he actually _was._ Barbaroux, if you would please alleviate Chapheau there…" Connor's arm was then wrapped around the Provençal's, and he was dragged into a nearby corridor. The echoing splashes of heavy footsteps put Stephane on high alert. Smirking, Marat turned around and stared up at the great figure of Danton. "There you are. Why weren't you at the rally?"

"There was… another case." Danton, as always, failed to provide a good excuse for past deeds. Still, he was not without his own plans for the future. "Lafayette's got the entire city under lockdown – the gates are closed, obviously, and all shipping has been recalled to port. Word is there were fifty civilians killed. Once the National Guard snap out of their bloodlust, they'll want a scapegoat; the authors of the petition. That is, us." He glanced meaningfully at Brissot, who leaned against Voltaire's statue, and continued frantically. "He'll be marching into the Cordeliers Section within minutes. I'm planning on running down to Arcis-sur-Aube, and then I plan on staying in London for a few weeks or so."

"And what damned good will that do, M. Danton?" Marat's voice was suspiciously quiet, yet his eyes had grown hard; he appeared as if her were a bull frog eyeing a particularly scrumptious fly, yet not moving in fear of scaring his quarry.

"It's just until the furor dies down. In these dank tunnels, we'll be sitting ducks for the Royalists! We're no good to the Republic _dead,_ Marat!"

His opponent's eyes were narrowed dangerously now. "Actually, we are: it's called _martyrdom_, Danton."

Danton scowled at Marat. "You do have that luxury, I agree, and that's all very well for you; but as for me, I have a wife, and children; I must settle my affairs, and then-"

"And then what? A little jot across the Channel, and then a civic banquet with the Hanoverian on the Cliffs of Dover, serenaded by piping Highlanders? Fine then; go! Flee, and be known as an Apostate of Liberty!" Having unleashed his fury, Marat proceeded to pacing within the limited confines of the Parisian Quarries. Danton, taking this as a dismissal, sniffed and stormed out of the rough tunnel, escorted by Hebert. The journalist sighed. _"'We live at a time of great events and little men,'" _he quoted, disgustedly. "There is no hope now in the law; fifty citizens of the French Nation have fallen, blindly trusting in it, and that fool decides now to be the time to slip from Their Majesties' leprous fingers!"

"I'm surprised he came when he did," said Brissot, amenably. "He'd been antsy even before the King was declared inviolable. Thought he'd be hiding at the Jacobin Club…"

"Ah, that reminds me - has anyone seen Robespierre?" Heads were shaken. Marat's teeth ground in irritation, until his face lightened suddenly, as if some grand conundrum had been solved at once. "Stephane!" Marat pulled him aside. There was that dastardly glint in his eye again – the barkeep was not sure if he should be anticipatory, or anxious, as to its meaning. "Connor vouched for your rabble-rousing before. Now, I have a task more suited to your… _abilities…"_

* * *

_Jacobin Club, rue St. Honoré  
Paris, France  
7:00 p.m._

From the sewers of Paris emerged Stephane the Incendiary.

Darkness had fallen on Paris. In the early evening, like a hurricane, he roiled through the streets, flooding the avenues and plazas with righteous fury. He had already decimated the shops of the Quai d'Orsay; and now, he was followed by a dozen of the dreaded fishwives of the markets, the_ poissardes_, all shrieking and cleaving through the alleyways, falling upon any National Guardsman in sight, eviscerating and decapitating, mauling and tearing. There may have been a time when such wanton death of Lafayette's men would have given him pause, but no more; the people had been fired upon, and now, blood roiling and vision reddened, he carried out the Creed, meting out justice to the oppressors. There would be time for contemplation – and perhaps even grief – later. Now, the People's work needed doing. _"À LES JACOBINS! À ROBESPIERRE!"_

They had churned past the River Seine onto the Right Bank of Paris; now, beneath the shadows of the Tuileries Palace, the King's guards fled into the building itself, fearful of the wrath of the people. But the King was not their target; the gates to the palace remained bolted. Instead, Stephane led the _poissardes_ to the rue St. Honoré just to the northeast. As they entered the street, shots rang out – shouting and clash of arms had preceded them to the convent. Howling with fury, the _poissardes_ found themselves confronted by half a dozen of the National Guard – with their uniforms were covered with dust and tricolored sashes sat askew on their waists, they were scarcely a better sight than their feminine adversaries. The waves clashed; _poissarde_ pitted against _garde_, woman versus man, Revolutionary opposed to Reactionary. Stephane allowed himself some small pride in this; but this was hardly his only task. Standing away from the ensuing brawl, he scanned the door to the Jacobin Club, and by activating the Eagle Vision of the First Civilization, he located a golden figure being grasped by a red one, and the golden one being cast into the street.

Returning to his normal sight, he saw the immaculate deputy, clothes already torn and blood-stained, being encircled by a quarto of National Guardsmen; their clothes were similarly adorned, although for some reason their leader wore a bonnet tied haphazardly beneath his chin. Three other Guards leveled their bayonets at the radical deputy. Stephane cried, _"Robespierre!"_ and barreled into their leader, cleaver slashing at skin. From behind him, the Assassin thought he saw one of the _poissardes_ jerk Robespierre back to his feet, but he had not time to waste on that. Bayonets were discharged – bullets pierced uselessly in the walls of the Jacobin Club. There were curses – his target had knocked the cleaver from his hand. Still, Stephane fought on. Curling his right hand into a fist, he summoned all his strength and pounded it into the Guardsman's face, resulting in a sickening crunch of the man's nose. Recoiling in shock, the man grasped the injured area – blood was now streaming into his mouth, and as he dislodged a pistol from his belt to fire at the disarmed Assassin before him, his trio of followers suddenly collapsed into the ground. Standing in their places was a trio of Assassins, shrouded in white hoods that had been striped with a navy color. As one, they sheathed their Hidden Blades and readied themselves for open combat, one pulling out a crowbar of all things, another a rapier, and so on. Stephane whirled around – standing at Robespierre's side, her shriveled hand grasping his shoulder, was an old woman, similarly attired, bearing a long staff. Her wrinkled lips had been split, and blood had stained her robes a stark red and violet mix.

The woman smiled kindly at Stephane and said, "M. Chapheau; Marat sends his regards. If you could please take this young man with you to shelter, I'd be much abliged."

Dazed, Stephane bent down and retrieved his cleaver, then reached out and took Robespierre by the arm. The deputy followed, bound in the same trance – the deaf leading the blind. Behind them, a spit was heard; the Guard had pelted the woman with blood and saliva. "So, aristocrats bleed red like us, eh? Well, we'll see your King's blood soon enough! _Robespierre!"_ she cried, "if we must have a King, let it be him!"

_"Roi Robespierre!" _the poissardes shouted, having routed the National Guard._ "Roi Robespierre!"_

Chuckling to himself, Stephane led Robespierre down the rue St. Honoré. After a time, the lawyer recovered his senses and said, "That woman mentioned Marat. Was this his doing? Did he rouse the people to our defense?"

_"Your_ defense, and yes, most likely; but then, it wouldn't take much to rally Paris to defend the Jacobins." Stephane frowned, then, as he heard the sound of running on cobblestone behind him. He whirled once more, ready to defend his charge if need be.

However, the man following them was no Guardsman; it was a tall, balding man, with a bloodied calico apron and a steel hammer clenched within his fist. _"Paix, citoyen!" _he cried. He held up his free hand in a welcoming gesture. "I am Maurice Duplay – a Jacobin! M. Robespierre, every member of _Les Jacobins_ fears for your safety. Let me spare you a long, dangerous walk home and offer you the hospitality of my house."

Robespierre blinked rapidly; then, shaking his head, he said, "I… yes, of course. It is a rather long walk back to le Marais. What is your profession, M. Duplay?"

"I am a carpenter, good _citoyen_ – I live at #398, St. Honoré."

Pursing his lips, the deputy shrugged his shoulders effortlessly. "Well, it would be closer to the Assembly…" Robespierre turned back to Stephane and shook his hand tremulously, saying, "You have my thanks, M. Chapheau. I don't know how I could possibly begin to repay you or M. Marat, but you have my assistance if you ever you require it."

"Simply stay as you are now – represent the Nation. Represent the People." With one last shake of his hand, Stephane let Robespierre go, and as the lawyer followed the carpenter to his new home, the Assassin let out a long-held sigh of relief. The two men stooped through a miniscule door cut in a high solid gate, and bolts slammed home – the National Guard would not find them this night.

* * *

_Salle du Manège  
Paris, France  
30 September, 1791_

It was safe to say that Stephane had totally redeemed himself in Marat's eyes. Still, his second attempt on Lafayette's life still grated on the journalist, and for good reason – failing to find his press, the National Guard had begun tearing down copies of L'Ami du Peuple wherever they had been posted (quite in contradiction to his earlier stances regarding freedom of the press, he had been quick to point out.) Then, the Guard had marched down the rue des Cordeliers. Warrants were issued for the irritators of the Champ de Mars. One Danton, advocate; Desmoulins, journalist; Chapheau, barkeep; Kenway, assassin. These persons were not to be found, either. Danton had arranged his affairs and fled to London in early August. Desmoulins was somewhere in Paris, staying out of principle. Chapheau had gone to visit his cousin in the west, hoping the holiday would take the sting from Lafayette's betrayal.

And Connor… he was stuck at Marat's bathside. Their excursion into the quarries of Paris had not exactly been to Marat's good health. Indeed, more sores soon made themselves evident, and, fearing Lafayette's reprisal against him, Connor, the bullet painstakingly excavated from his chest, was confined to limited action until his recovery – indeed, his every movement set his upper torso aflame. And so he roomed with Marat for convenience's sake. The result had been less than had come to visit him outside an open sewer. The propagandist was still in Gilbert's good graces, and so he had come to extricate Connor from the deep places of Paris just for a single day – in disguise, of course. "And besides, the Constitution is fully implemented today – you must at least come out and see what your works have wrought." Connor had been cleverly disguised as a Corsican merchant – his dark skin more or less emulated the tone of the Mediterranean. As they made their way through the busy Parisian streets into the Riding Hall, Thomas Paine decided to fill him in on all he had missed in the past two weeks. "Danton's back, you should know. He's still keeping quiet, and he's doing his best to stay far away from Motier and Marat – between a rock and a hard place."

"I had heard that Austria and Prussia declared their intent to invade France, last month. Is there any truth to this?"

Paine's mouth twisted. "Yes, it was done at Pillintz. Robespierre would believe otherwise, but I'll be damned before I ignore any royal house of Europe. Brissot is calling for the Legislative Assembly to declare war once it convenes. And there's treachery afoot, too boot: the _émigrés_ have settled in Coblence; the Comte de Provence, d'Artois, and the Princes de Conde have all announced their decision to invade France and restore their ancient privileges."

"Why settle in Coblence?"

"The archbishop-elector is Louis Capet's uncle. It's a family affair, as usual. Indeed, history's most brutal feuds have occurred between siblings and cousins. That they have been given complete control of entire countries is the greatest sin humanity has committed: a cementation of eternal war. But no matter! Here we are; and here is one of these petulant children, ready to plead his case." Gripping the railing of the upper galleries, Paine gazed down dispassionately on the King of the French.

Louis Capet before the Assembly. With his left arm thrust into his jacket, and his right 'lovingly' rested on top of the French Constitution, he began his last address to that body. "I, Louis, King of the French, on the 13th day of this month, did ordain and accept the French Constitution. In accordance with the Constitution, I hereby declare the National Constituent Assembly to be dissolved on this, the last day of September, 1791; and I would like to remind its members that, in accordance with M. Robespierre's Self-Denying Ordinance, none of its members will be eligible for election to its successor, the Legislative Assembly. Voting for representatives to the Legislative Assembly has already concluded, and they shall convene tomorrow in this very room. The end of the Revolution has come! Let the Nation resume its happy nature! Let God bless their endeavor as they set about the work of governance, and may the Constitutional Kingdom of the French prosper! _Vive la Nation! Vive les Français!"_

The deputies stood and cheered for their flighty monarch (some more subdued than others), but especially for their colleague, Robespierre. Even Connor had been shocked – that a politician would deny himself an opportunity at consolidating his power seemed contradictory to everything he had ever learned about that decrepit race of man. _Speaking of which,_ he thought bitterly, as General Gilbert du Motier approached the rostrum. Their eyes met – and, without even raising an alarm, the General continued up to the podium. "The Constitution has been put into effect. There is now no further quarrel between King and Assembly; so, I am bound to resign from my command of the National Guard! But, if it please the Nation's representatives, I shall continue my public career in their midst – I am come also to announce my candidacy for Mayor of Paris!"

Connor scoffed as the Assembly burst into yet another round of applause. The spectators from the theatrical boxes, however, were notably more reserved in their congratulations of the Hero of the Two Worlds. Scowling in fury, the Assassin whirled on Pain and demanded, "How could they cheer him?! He mowed down their friends and family not ten miles from here, and they heap praise after praise upon his bloodied head!" He instantly found himself wanting his Hidden Blade – but that had been taken from him, until he had fully recovered from his bullet wound. It burned now more than it had at any other time in the past two , however, did not seem to be in too argumentative a mood. He said only this: "The man is a soldier, and, under fire, only did his duty. His poor, deluded duty. '_Did you expect that he should act like a stoic philosopher, lost in apathy?'"  
_  
The Assassin blinked at the propagandist. "… Did you just quote John Adams at me? I thought you'd be more in Samuel's camp."

"Oh, I am, and I shall forever view the House of La Fayette through tinted eyes – and his talk of 'sacred oaths' is a load of bull, as is usually the case with such 'holy' matters – but he's far too likeable to completely despise, eh?" He stepped away from the gallery and headed out the door. "Besides, it's still a beautiful day, and there are some far more worthy of praise at the moment…"

Outside, another demonstration had coalesced, clustered beneath the foliage of the Tuileries garden. Connor stood in awe as the deputies of the National Constituent Assembly were released from the building and exited, in procession, to the cheers of the crowd – liberty caps were hoisted on pikes, and triumphant orchestras played to their triumph. Suddenly, the crowd erupted – Robespierre had just set foot on the Royal terrace. The people swarmed around the egalitarian, whooping and weeping, embracing and entrancing. In the midst of the chaos, a crown of oak leaves was placed on the flustered lawyer's powdered head, and they proclaimed him as the true champion of Liberty – not Lafayette, not the King, but Robespierre. He was baptized in tears, anointed with adorations, and when he sought to hide from his victory, they followed him still. When the day ended, he would finally be released from this awkward circumstance and be fittingly rewarded with some peace and quiet at the Duplays', but for now, he was the Peoples'. Eventually, the poor fellow was obligated to make a speech, and when it was done, they people had found a new rallying cry, one that all of Paris would eventually find to be very agreeable to them:  
_  
"VIVE ROBESPIERRE! VIVE L'INCORRUPTIBLE!"_

* * *

_Les Cordeliers  
Paris, France  
28 October, 1791_

"Robespierre," began Marat, "has returned home to Arras. Brissot leads the Legislative Assembly. And here I am, reading correspondences in a bathtub."

Marat pored through the papers and letters he had laid on the wooden beam that had been laid across his medicinal bath; Lafayette's resignation from command had freed up the Cordeliers press, and he was back at work - not even his physical ills would keep him from knowing the world's every movement. "Ah, what's this now?" Marat scanned a sheet of paper, one stained with sea salt and sealed with the colonial sigil of the French. "There's been a slave revolt in New France - St. Dominique…"

"Really?" asked Connor. He had sailed the Aquila through the West Indies several times, yet he had never bothered to make port at the French colony. Still, he had heard of it from someone in recent memory. _Aveline de Grandpré, _he thought. "Go on…"

"'The entirety of the Northern Province is in rebellion… In the streets of Le Cap, _les blancs_ and _les gens de couleur libre_ slaughter one another… without, the country is in anarchy… _les noirs_ have broken their chains… they pillage, rape, torture, mutilate… Le Cap Français is besieged, our plantations burn…' Ha! They enslave an entire people, and they still care only for their _damned_ profits! _Les aristos sont adorables!"_ Marat was practically convulsing in laughter at this.

Still, Connor was not too amused at the moment. "What is to be done? Will the Assembly try to quell the rebellion?"

Marat read on through his notes. "The slaves outnumber both whites and free men of color ten to one. Naturally, the whites have refused to allow freed blacks any of the justice - _that is already theirs, _mind you…Brissot and _Les Amis des Noirs_ are filibustering any troop movements from the Assembly until the free men of color are granted equal rights. This whole document reeks of suspicion: is this the King's doing? Does he hope to send troops across the seas and establish a refuge for himself across the Atlantic?"

"That sounds comically outlandish, even for _you,_ Marat."

_"_Oh, there are times when I can surprise even myself, these ideas of mine…" He suddenly seemed very amused. "Heh, you know what Riquetti said about it? _'The whites sleep at the foot of Vesuvius.' _I almost feel sorry for the poor wretches… Well, the slavers have made their bed; it is now for them to sleep in it." Marat read on, shuffling through more of his sources, growing less and less interested as he skimmed. His dim expression suddenly alighted, and he gleefully turned his gaze to Connor, a horrid grin splitting his face like a wound. "Here, now; your dear General has lost to Pétion in his bid for Mayor. He's retired to Chavaniac. Let us hope that we hear no more from this _'Hero of Two Worlds!'"_

* * *

_Autel: _(French) 'Altar'.

_Fusillade: _(French) Concentrated gunfire.

_Les blancs:_ (French) 'The whites', here referring to white colonialists in St. Dominique.

_Gens de couleur libres:_ (French) 'Free people of color'; includes freed slaves and people of mixed ancestry, _métis._

* * *

_A glimpse into the mind of Marat; a champion of Liberty, yet a proponent of Dictatorship. If there is any link to be found, it is that of Free Will. Typically, the Assassins only ever defended Free Will from the Templars, who sought to dismantle it using the Pieces of Eden. In Marat's perfect society, an Assassin would rule all, yet allow his subjects to practice Free Will – which I suppose would include religious freedoms?_

_Like father like… adopted son, eh? Washington and Lafayette, stirring up trouble wherever they go! The day of this event, three days after the second Bastille Day, was ever after known as the 'Fusillade du Champ de Mars', hence the title of this chapter._

_Tonight's cameo courtesy of Thomas-Alexandre Dumas, the highest ranking person of color in a continental European army in all of forever! (And the father of a rather famous author…) TA Dumas was, in fact, present at the massacre, but more on that later… Fun fact: the word 'dragoon' does not exist in the French language. They're just referred to as 'dragons'._

_The Declaration of Pillintz was made on 27 August, 1791 by King Friedrich Wilhelm II of Prussia and Holy Roman Emperor Leopold II, declaring their support for Louis XVI and promising military aid in the event that the other European Powers did so (the assumption was that Britain would steer clear, and so nothing would be done – the only reason it was made was to appease the King's brothers in Coblentz. But Brissot, of course, interpreted this differently.)_

_Finally, there's my footnote on Aveline! Around this time period, I imagine her sailing to St. Dominique close to the beginning of the Haitian Revolution –August, 1791. News of the uprising only reached Paris in October, and a debate on slavery ensued. To this day, it remains one of the only successful slave revolts in history, as it resulted in the establishment of the independent nation of Haiti._


End file.
